


Thorns in My Side

by 4getfulimaginator



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship/Love, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2466737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4getfulimaginator/pseuds/4getfulimaginator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>CS modern AU, based on Beauty and the Beast.</b> </p><p>Emma Swan finds extraordinary roses and beside them, a man who hides behind the thorns. In the end, meeting him may be her downfall, in more ways than one. Her weakness is seeing both the beauty and the beast within - and this time, she can't look away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1 - We Stumble

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

She can't remember how she first came upon the house.

The memory is fuzzy along the edges, a series of left and right turns (and a couple of frustrating cul-de-sacs) she had traversed in the hopes of finding a new way to walk from school back to her dingy, one-bedroom apartment. After that stalker ―  _creep_  ― had started following her route, she had told herself to be fearless, failed to convince herself that cowering in the shadows because of one psycho bum wasn't worth all this trouble...so she had followed a trail of cozy-looking homes until here she was, gaping.

Well, it was kind of worth her reaction. Polished oaken walls, a burgundy roof that gleamed in the sunlight, and crystal windows that scintillated with a smile if you peeked at them at just the right angle.

But that wasn't what had caught her attention.

It was the roses.

There were roses  _everywhere_ , from the trellis to the arching porch and back again to the tall white picket fence and grand pecan tree on guard, twisting and winding until there was no beginning and no end to the spindly, prickly, full-blooming marvels. Red and white and yellow and pink, sweet-smelling wild and tame and hybrid, orange bursting onto scarlet and crimson spraying onto peach. There was a heady perfume that could only belong to this variety of flower, bud and blossom and fledgling flower entangling in a lover's embrace that repeated over and over again.

In this neighborhood of black and white, here was color. It wasn't sunshine and daisies ― it was more. The turmoil in this extraordinary front yard spoke of passion, of fervor, of recklessness. It spoke of care and honesty, of deepest affection. It was truly bedazzling.

Her mind spinning from the onslaught of this vision, this unprecedented display of natural beauty that supposedly only existed in greenhouses and botanical expos (and on the stiff pages of very expensive hardcover books), Emma drew closer and gave up the fight.

She had never believed in love at first sight, but head over heels, she fell. Making a note of the address amidst the whirlwind of scent and flora, she promised herself that she would come back.

True to her instincts and her stubborn will, it only took a day for her to find her secret garden again.

* * *

Emma sighed as she leaned on the one post not covered by sloping, thorny vines, gazing intently at the soft petaled rose in front of her. It was a sweet rose ― sweet because of its baby bottom color and its winsome smell ― and she could swear it felt as soft as it looked, even though it was out of her reach.

Every afternoon after dull college classes that irked the hell out of her, Emma would almost run off campus to wind and wander through lonely concrete streets, ignoring the puzzled and curious stares of simple folk going about everyday life on their properties. She would scramble, stagger, and stumble across beaten sidewalk and crumbling asphalt, desperate for her little piece of heaven, her hundreds and thousands and millions of roses. Well, not really  _millions_  ― but it would be a close guess, seeing all those buds nestled next to each other, part of a giant family that was united in sap and form and fellowship.

This was her daily routine. For weeks, she took the bus in the morning, endured her droning teachers and the one or two classes she genuinely enjoyed, and then...her haven awaited, in all its fragrant, aesthetic splendor.

Yeah, she had a thing for art and nice things making a pretty picture (she was no photographer, though). It was her secret delight, and as for gardening... She couldn't be sure about something she had never tried.

Shifting from one foot to the other in order to avoid stiff knees, Emma swayed gently when the wind blew suddenly. Then her eyes snapped open.

All these months she had been coming here ― was it two or three? ― she had never seen the denizen of said residence. In fact, aside from studying the building and assessing it was a comfortable living space, she had never even given it a passing glance. Not when her focus was elsewhere.

Now she wondered.

It was sturdily built, this cabin-like abode. It had that not-so-subtle masculine touch, a crafty design that spoke of forests and downy earth. The architecture was simple, the materials solid. Okay, so a man lived here. Did he hibernate or something, that he was never out and about his own house?

Nevertheless, her respect and admiration only grew for this tiny mansion in the middle of nowhere. All her life (well, all twenty-three years of it), she had been the classic outcast, always on the outside looking in. She was the window shopper, seeing what she wanted through paned glass but unable to acquire it.

Family.

 _Love_.

A place to call home.

But most of all, love. Someone who wanted her, somewhere she truly belonged.

Was that really so much to ask, when she had nothing?

Even now, she couldn't understand the allure of these roses. She wasn't a "rose kind of girl" ― peonies and carnations, please and thank you ― but somehow, after she had found this house, everything had changed. And she was still outside the gate, wanting something she couldn't have.

Her life was utterly, utterly pathetic.

Noticing that it was dusk, Emma gave each of her favorites one last wistful smile before turning around and heading home.

Hah. Home was one of those things on her wish list, buried in the closet of her heart.

Back to the death trap of an apartment it was. But she couldn't help looking back every once in a while, watching the flowers glow golden under the lamplight as they faded into the night.

And still, the windows of the house remained dark.

* * *

Nothing went right.  _Nothing ever went right._

First it had been school, her group presentation a grade F bomb because the only group member present was yours truly, and then her lab partner spilled chemical goop all over their table and her clothes. Then when she went to man the fort at the grocery store she cashiered for, it took one broken egg carton, four rude customers, and two epic outbursts to get her boss to threaten to fire her. And then at her apartment, the pipes broke and the landlord was squalling about two weeks late rent and her favorite red leather coat got lost on the bus and...

It was raining. Hard. She didn't have an umbrella. And she was running through puddles and lakes and oceans of water, soaking her only pair of boots, and she was stomping them through splashes and tidal waves.

She had to get to the roses. She  _had_  to. Maybe then all this madness would look sane. Maybe, when she saw proof that one corner of this damn world was still beautiful, she could make herself believe that it was.

Maybe.

She didn't get even halfway there before she slipped on a piece of malignant concrete and was dumped unceremoniously on her behind, the stress of the day forcing her to break. Covered in raindrops and her own tears, Emma huddled on the pavement, hugging her arms to her sides and hiding her face on her lap.

And the rain came down with a vengeance, screaming in fury and washing away the sounds of her sobs as she sat there on the edge of the pavement, wet and alone and disregarded in the middle of the raging storm.

No one cared. No one ever had cared. And from the looks of it, no one ever would.

For who could want someone like her, the little lost girl?

She would always be Emma the orphan for the rest of her life.

* * *

The pipes were fixed. Her salary was safely deposited in her bank account and the landlord got one month's rent in advance. The sun was shining outside. School was as monotonous as ever, but her grades were up.

She should be happy,  _feel_  happier. But she didn't. It was temporary relief, that's all.

When classes were over for the day, she knew where she needed to go.

* * *

The neighbors called it "the forsaken shack." By now, they were used to her visits to the house, some even waving at her half-heartedly when she passed by ― but they were less than willing to divulge any details about its  _status quo_ , and they were far less willing to discuss its current owner. Narrowed eyes and mouths shut tight. Lips pursed in a sneer. Spit hurled on the ground, jeers voiced derisively against that "ridiculous, nauseating,  _pink_  eyesore of a front yard."

She had not pondered  _why_  the lights never went on in the evenings, why all parts of the house seemed to spotless while the yard was in a state of perpetual disarray. She had not asked till now, and her curiosity was demanding why she hadn't bothered.  _Maybe she hadn't because she was trying so hard not to care at all..._

Only one woman, elderly and with dogs trailing about her ankles, whispered to Emma that the man who lived in that "quaint little cottage with the lovely flowers" was something of a recluse, keeping to himself and seldom coming out. He had a past, she said, a history ― but few knew his name, let alone his background. He was rarely seen, and if and when he appeared in broad daylight, he wasn't introducing himself to any of them.

 _Curiosity killed the cat_ , Emma told herself when she proceeded to take her stand by her favorite fencepost. Why would she even bother to find out anything about the person hiding behind those walls when she was too busy hiding behind her own?

After all, it's not as if she wanted to meet the guy ― she was only here for the roses. As long as everyone was aware she wasn't some stalker or would-be burglar doing reconnaissance, her daily treks were a perfectly ordinary pastime. Or so she tried to persuade herself while closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. Yeah right. Leaning against a fence, being miles away from her real  _home_  (the word was beginning to leave a bitter aftertaste in her mind), gazing for hours at rosebushes growing in someone else's yard ― very, very normal.

She ignored the whispering inside, the warning voice that had told her not to get attached to this place.  _Too late_ , she shot back defiantly.  _I want to be here_.

When the darkness began to cast its spell and she spun on her heel to walk away, wrapping herself more tightly in her new jacket and plodding slowly toward everything she didn't want to go back to, she missed the careful lifting of the blind in the farthermost window. She failed to notice artificial light sneaking through a slowly upturned curtain and illuminating a particular outline behind the flimsy-looking piece of cloth, the shadow of a figure enveloped by pale blue.

_Nothing is ever for free._

* * *

Days continued as they should, nights a lonely remembrance of all Emma dreamed. But she was oddly content with her routine, waiting to see the one light that shone brighter than anything else in her life. It was all she had.

The roses were growing wildly, blindly, rapidly. They were entwining around her, clouding her senses. She had started drawing them in her notebooks, black ink spiraling until there were dozens of petals and sleeping buds and leaves. And then it struck her, as her English professor spoke of Shakespeare and Act I of "Romeo and Juliet": why was she only seeing the roses?

Why wasn't she smelling them, holding them... _touching_  them?

It was three months, going on four, and she had not even grazed one flower with her fingertip, content to drink in the sight but never experiencing it.

Old fears sprang forward, but she grew determined, adding coral shadowing to the red blossom on the back cover of her composition book as she hardened her resolve.

Today. Today would be the day she finally held one of those heavenly roses in her hand.

No more watching.

* * *

She felt as Adam did in Michelangelo's Sistine Ceiling fresco, stretching out his hand to God in order to touch the divine ( _bless that art class_ ). Tentatively, boldly, she stretched out her own hand, a sigh parting her lips when she cupped the blood red rose in front of her, curling over wood and beyond as if to beckon and encourage.

 _Hello beautiful_ , she whispered to herself, bending it forward until her nose could be buried deeply in its folds. Nectar and perfume, wafting upwards. The sweetest caress. Unearthly beauty indeed ― if there was a God, and he created this wretched earth, he certainly could take credit for designing flowers. Perhaps she should become a botanist ― no, a florist―

When the stem snapped suddenly, the strain and force of her pull effectively disconnecting it from its mother branch, a loud scream crackled through the air―

And Emma, mortified, was adhered to the ground as the world she knew tore apart.

* * *

" _Who the bloody hell do you think you are, you conniving, thieving slag?!_ "

He was dragging her past the gate, his grip hard and rough and unyielding. His fury was tangible, and she was shaking, dumbly submitting as her entire body went into a state of shock.

_Portland, Oregon. Hands behind your head, Miss. You know your rights? Bars and bars and more bars, all displaying she had lost: her freedom, her belief, her trust. Handcuffs, feet cuffs, no privacy. Caught, caught, caught. Punished. Wicked, worthless girl. Eleven months of bullying, of fright, of temptation. Of endless, endless torture._

At last, she fought back.

Ripping her hand from his hold, she shrieked when he grabbed both of her arms as she tried to run.

"Think you can  _steal_  from  _me_ , lass, and get away with it?" he yelled, shaking her hard. "After all the stalking I've endured from you at my expense, it will be a pleasure to call the bloody cops, let them decide what to do with you―"

" _No!_ " Her eyes widened in terror, and she stopped struggling. "Please don't call them ―  _please_!"

He lifted a brow ― she could make that out, but her blurry vision (was she  _crying_?) was preventing her from seeing all his features ― so she hastily continued her apology. "I didn't mean any harm ― I only wanted―" she gulped, "― _needed_  to feel one. Please, you don't understand―it was an accident―"

"That's what they all say." He laughed sardonically, a chilling sound. "You are damned right that I don't understand. Give me one  _good_  reason why I shouldn't have a sodding scavenger like you arrested for harassment and theft this instant, and perhaps―"

She interrupted, "I love your roses. Look ― I'm sorry.  _I'm sorry._  I'm a hard worker, so how 'bout we make a deal? I'll help around your yard ― fix it up―" she chuckled uneasily, trembling when his gaze turned into a burning glare, "―maybe help with housework, chores?"

The man scoffed at her, his brogue thickening as his anger intensified. "A common thief inside my own  _house_? I would never trust you with even a pair of scissors―"

She cried out when he squeezed her muscles, the dead grass swallowing her falling tears. "Please," she whimpered, too frightened and ashamed to feel humiliated by the defeat in her tone, "please give me a chance. A chance to make it up to you." Her voice was a desperate whisper. "We can work this out.  _It was only one rose._ "

He cocked his head, and, blinking quickly, she gaped as his face became clear. Eyes as crystal blue as pure sea ―  _magnetic_. Rugged jaw, dark stubble, handsome profile, dark hair ―  _ethereal appearance_. From the looks of it, he was only several years older than her...but that glint in his gaze, the fire there...he seemed like he had aged centuries in one glance.

She was too terrified to be awestruck.

Hesitating, he peered at her intently before shoving her away, his hands ― wait,  _wait_. His left hand was oddly stiff, the fingers unmoving. It was as if―

Emma covered her open mouth with her hands, willing herself not to gasp, not to react at all. She took a step backward, wanting to put as much space as possible between herself and her captor. He had made a mountain out of a molehill, and though she understood why he was upset, she had made a  _mistake_. Why should one less rose matter, when his property was overrun with them anyway?

A sneer crossed his lips, and his eyes darkened. "Tell you what ― I'll  _think_  on it." He was scrutinizing her closely. "What's your name, love?"

She clutched the fragmented rose to her chest. "Emma Swan," she stammered, praying for her courage to return. In an instant, she was seventeen again, frightened out of her wits and unable to believe that such terrible, terrible things could happen to her ― even though they always did.

He smirked at her. "Well,  _Emma Swan_ ," he drawled sarcastically, "come back tomorrow ― same time ― and we'll discuss my terms." When she shifted, he stepped forward until his mouth was by her ear. "But if you try to hide," he warned, "or if you try to run, rest assured that I  _will_  find you. And believe me, you will not enjoy the consequences of that choice ― make no mistake about  _that_. Indeed, I'm sure one of my neighbors would be more than willing to testify to seeing you around here so often..."

She nodded hurriedly, wishing for nothing more than to disappear. "Tomorrow," she promised.

He eyed her up and down before he strode back toward the front entrance. Then he stopped short, turned around, and marched right back to her quickly enough that she didn't even have a chance to move one foot. "You forgot something," he growled, ripping the broken rose from her hands and stuffing it into the pocket of his coat.

Watching him re-enter his house and slam the open door shut, she stood paralyzed, with fallen petals strewn over her hands.

They were all that remained of her joyous dream.

* * *

Emma knew all too well the pain of losing a favorite haunt, the way it hurt to lose anything ― but life forced you to move on, even if you thought you couldn't. Yes, that ache was too familiar.

Her mind was blank, as if she had awakened from some dreadful dream. She couldn't see anything but  _him_  ― savage, violent, outraged. The intimidation she had incurred. The horrid memories that had threatened to push her down to her knees and make her beg for mercy. Never,  _never_  did she want to relive those memories, those images, those  _feelings_. She had sworn to herself to forgive and forget, but the hurt, the scars...she couldn't will them away for all the roses in the world.

They had touched a part of her long dormant, the innocent, wide-eyed girl who had hoped and dreamed and wished and prayed and fought for the things every child should have, every person should keep.

She had left her childhood in the dust. And womanhood was certainly no picnic. Study, work, eat, sleep, repeat. That was her daily schedule, her future: an endless cycle.

She wanted so much more than that.

And now she had gotten herself into this mucky shit of a situation, and...it didn't look good. At all. The man, whoever he was, was acting half-deranged, just because she "took" one of his precious flowers (as if they weren't sprouting all over the place), and now he thought she was indebted to him or something like that.

Crazy bastard.

Clenching her jaw, Emma tugged on a simple sweater and peeked out the one window in her apartment. It was late fall already, and soon it would be winter. The roses would be gone anyway, dead and buried.

So why was he making such a big deal out of nothing?

Trailing down the stairs, she figured there was only one way to find out.

She wasn't looking forward to this.

* * *

"Here's how it will go, lass: I make the demands, you follow them," he instructed, waving his hand demonstratively as he showed her around and inside the garden shed, the backyard spanning several acres back. She had never realized how deserted the house really was, abandoned on some vacant lot ostracized from its surroundings. Settled at the end of a cul-de-sac bordered by some wildlife and unnamed forest-y turf, his territory spanned quite a sum of land.

Wiping his hands ― uh,  _hand_  ― on his jeans after grabbing a bit of dirt from the ground and analyzing it with his fingertips, the man grunted something unintelligible to himself before proceeding to his house, the soles of his boots leaving visible prints. Emma followed mutely, silencing her mental comments about how he would be quite attractive if he wasn't grimacing every other minute, his pendant necklaces swinging 'round and 'round his neck against his plain white t-shirt.

The layout of each room was...in a word,  _ingenious_. The dimensions were small, but the unique interior design, obviously nautical in taste, created a sense of limitless space. Every piece of furniture, every decoration was arranged perfectly so that she could move about easily.

One bathroom, two bedrooms. The kitchen was rather large, and there wasn't any dining room. The living room was more of a mini-library with a black leather couch thrown in the middle. All in all, the house was...simple. But despite herself, Emma was warming to the coziness of it, the way everything inside her was pleading for something similar.  _Why couldn't I have had this? Why couldn't Neal have been―_

She winced, flinching at the words.  _None of that, now._

When she opened her eyes again, he was staring at her curiously. Her face blanching, she slipped her hands into her pockets (god, the man had had the nerve to  _frisk_  her before he allowed her to pass through the gate) and peered down at her booted feet. "So, what do you want me to do?" she mumbled, a stroke of worry and medium anxiety rushing her heartbeat.

He snorted, seeing right through her fears. "Don't flatter yourself, darling." When she opened her mouth to retort, he tsked. "You're something of an open book, m'dear, so let me enlighten you: you'll be working. Hard. Any task I assign you ― nothing kinky or anything of that kind, as I am a  _gentleman_  ― you will complete. Yardwork, housework ― as you so kindly suggested ― and maybe even a bit of cooking from time to time."

"And how long will this...arrangement last?"

"Already wanting to be rid of me?" He chuckled mirthlessly. "How disheartening. But let's see...you've skulking around my home for nearly...how many months now?" He made a show of counting on his fingers. "Hmm...about 4 or 5 months."

Emma bit her bottom lip defiantly. "And it took you that long to notice me?" she snapped.

His brow furrowed. "Let's get this straight right now: I  _let_  you stand about, staring aimlessly into space, admiring the view. Anyone else would have already booted you out on your arse and given you sufficient evidence of their displeasure at being watched for hours on end, but I  _allowed_  you to look and look and look. It was a  _courtesy_ , and since you never trespassed on my property, I tolerated you. But the moment you even  _fingered_  what is mine, you crossed the line. Understood?"

She gritted her teeth during her response. "Understood."

"To be fair," he continued, "I will expect the same period of time in return as compensation for your, uh,  _invasion_  of my privacy. That is when I will be done with you." His eyes narrowed. "Five months ― no more, no less."

 _Five months?_  Emma's heart plummeted to the bottom of her stomach, and she grew nauseous. Five months of being at the beck and call of this arrogant asshole who spoke like some stupid captain aboard a ship, all sassy and saucy and commanding―

"Agreed." She stuck out her hand warily, wanting some physical confirmation that a deal had been struck, though she didn't trust his word in any case. "I work for you for five months, and we keep this mum." Fidgeting, she swallowed hard and looked up at him. "Is it okay if I come only for a few hours after school's done? I work early in the morning, so there's that..."

"Fine," he said brusquely, shaking her hand quickly and then withdrawing his as if it had been burnt. "Come a bit before sunset, and you can leave around dusk. After all, I'll only be able to handle your company for so long at a time."

 _Damn right you couldn't handle it_ , she mentally cursed, taking a deep breath before putting on her thick leather gloves. "So, what's first on the list of things to do?"

He grinned wickedly, the smile unforgiving and cold. "Oh, I have something in mind..."

* * *

The man still hadn't told her his name. One week, and no progress on that front.

Emma stared at her hands, trying in vain to remove the muck and grime settling under her fingernails and between her fingers. When rubbing it off under the running hose only made matters worse, smearing grease further across her skin, she groaned in frustration and gave up, kicking at the empty bucket for good measure.

She never saw him, never talked to him. Instead, a list was taped to the front door every time she stopped by, with the materials she needed to complete the chore or whatever ungodly duty he assigned her.

First, it was the impossible: cleaning out and re-organizing his entire tool shed, weeding out and fertilizing his grass, digging out all the dead, bare bushes in preparation for the winter. Cleaning out the junk piles lazily drifting about different areas of the backyard. Trimming the thick, bristly hedges that had the height of two men. Fixing his roof. Cleaning the gutter while standing precariously on a rickety ladder.

She wasn't a handyman type of girl, but she was doing the kind of work a professional carpenter or laborer would be charging damn good fricking money for.

The only time she had felt competent so far was when he had asked her in the  _postscriptum_  of one note to have a look at his old Jeep, which was hanging around under a crude metal canopy.

She did the oil change, checked the mileage, scrubbed under the hood, checked the tire tread, and to top it off, gave the poor wreck of a car a wash. That high school course about auto mechanics she had worked her ass for had really paid off in the end. It would have even more if she had a car of her own...

Now "the Captain" was giving her menial tasks ― cleaning his trash cans ( _who does that?_ ), repainting his fence eggshell-white, dusting out the cobwebs from the high corners of the house. Y'know, for a bachelor, he didn't have a lot of trash to take out, really.

She despised washing his windows. She loathed waxing his doorknobs, polishing his car's hubcaps. Most of all, she hated having to do anything for him, who was probably too lazy to take care of his things himself.

But what she hated more ― what she didn't even dare to admit to herself ― was how, in every single note, a line was written all in capital letters, in bold and angry print: "DON'T TOUCH THE ROSES."

She never went near them. And if she couldn't finish a chore on time, she left the rest for the next day.

Then there was the inside work. The front door was unlocked, and though she believed  _His Highness_  wouldn't be able to escape her presence this time, being in the same atmosphere as she, he did his best by locking himself in his bedroom when she came. Until this day ― 1 month and 22 days,  _and counting_  ― she had never been inside. And it didn't look like she would anytime soon.

Cleaning was simple enough ― mopping the floors, dusting the bookcases, washing the tiles and whatnot. The bathroom was surprisingly well kempt, so sanitary efforts there were nowhere near as disgusting as she had imagined they would be. The kitchen was in order, the couch was rather shiny.

However...he wanted her to keep cleaning the house. Every. Other. Day. Understandably, the outside tasks diminished, mainly because she was so damn  _great_  at completing them. She had felt like strangling him when he demanded she do the same chore twice, because "it wasn't done well enough."

There wasn't any gratitude outlined in his lists. There weren't any congratulatory words hidden in his notes. No, for Emma, this was a true sacrifice ― of her time, of her energy. Her pride.

This was suffering ― doing something for someone you hated that would gain you nothing.

Still, she would rummage through his cabinets and his fridge ( _there was a spice rack!_ ), rustle up spicy fish on the pan and mashed potatoes ― or deep, black-beaned chili in a bread bowl ― on Mondays and Wednesdays. Turkey patties with green peas and jasmine rice on Tuesdays. Thursdays called for bean sausages with red pepper, toasted  _and_  buttered buns, and loads of condiments, but Fridays were fried chicken and sweet potato fries. Saturdays and Sundays were the real torture, but she managed. She made enough for two days on Saturday ― either it was split pea, potato leek, or minestrone soup, combined with dark homemade bread and spinach salad, or sometimes she'd made a simple stir-fry ― and she hopefully assumed he would be content with leftovers for Sunday.

She was no cook, but she had taught herself when she was 10, and she had never forgotten. Desserts were varied, but she usually whipped up some fruit pie or simple cookies. Once she baked an upside-down brownie sundae cake. She left the vanilla ice cream to defrost on the counter.

No response from  _him_. No reaction at all. But he left the dirty dishes in the sink for her to clean up.

All this food, everything she baked and created from scratch, was tempting her. It was prompting too much realization, making the tension and turmoil within burn too heatedly. Whatever sense of honor she had was being sorely tested.

God, she was  _caring_  for this monster's home like it were her own, and she was not receiving anything in return, not even the satisfaction of seeing him somewhat pleased.

He was taking and taking, she was giving and giving, and nothing was changing. Maybe she should resign herself to the fact that it would go on like this till the end, when their "deal" would be over after 5 months of being a veritable servant heeding his every command and whim.

She would work herself to the bone from sunrise until mid-morning, when she'd go to her classes, and then, a few hours before sunset, she would traverse miles to do free labor until dusk in a house filled with secrets. And she'd trudge back to her own habitat, subjected to restless nights and tired mornings.

If this was a taste of what her future was going to be like ― drudgery for the high and mighty who needed a kick in the behind more than a helping hand ―  _to hell with it_.

_To hell with him._

* * *

He was a man who hid behind his own bedroom door, listening to Emma hum while she toiled, sometimes singing prettily while she polished the floor or arranged dinner. A man who peeked out a window or two while she walked around the front and back yard to ensure nothing was amiss. He would always sneak out right after the door clicked behind her to signal her departure, watching her shoulders sag heavily as she proceeded to go back to her own world.

Somehow, he had trapped her into his, and he couldn't understand why he was willingly letting her stay in it. He should do what's best for all involved and let her go, release her from this absurd contract of theirs.

He shouldn't be so attached to Milah's roses. He shouldn't be drinking himself into oblivion everyday, living on rum and whiskey and the telly ―  _his three best friends_  ― when he still had his own life. When he should be  _living_  it.

So many things he  _should_  do. So many more things he  _shouldn't_.

Tilting his head back, he swallowed a deep draught of rum before tiptoeing into the kitchen to see what the Swan girl had concocted this time.

He shouldn't be so selfish. But, with quite a few sighs and after double-checking that the blinds were firmly shut, he turned on his television, slid onto his couch, and began to eat his supper.

 _Who bloody cared?_  She was dead,  _he_  was in love and happy, and all he had left was his stump of a hand, a broken heart, and crushed dreams.

He had nothing. He was alone. Why should he give a damn about Emma Swan?

_Quietly and absently, his mind registered that the vegetable stew she had cooked in place of the usual chicken was quite delicious and remarkably pungent..._

* * *

She was suspicious when he started leaving her gifts. Well, why wouldn't she be, when he barely stuck his nose out to see if she was fulfilling her side of the bargain? Since when had the balance shifted? Since when was he  _nice_?

First, it was snickerdoodle cookies, carefully wrapped in parchment and smelling too tantalizing ( _were those burnt edges around each of them...?_ ), with his fancy cursive script signed on a small scrap of paper:  _Your favorite?_

She must have gawked at the whole presentation for five minutes without moving a limb. Tucking the note into her pocket and the plate of cookies into her satchel, she wondered all the way home if they were poisoned or not.

When she went again for the usual routine, she noticed that several ingredients ― especially the ones needed for baking luscious, cinnamon-y cookies the size of your hand ― were depleted in their allotted containers. And there, lying on the counter, was another set, this time unburnt.

For the first time since she had begun working there, a smile broke out on her face, wide enough to make her cheeks hurt. When she finished preparing dinner that evening, she scribbled something on the same note he had used and stuck it by the cutlery laid out on the counter.

She chuckled when she found out he also had a soft spot for cherry pie.

* * *

It was like awkward, adolescent pen pal correspondence, where you first stated all your preferences, your hobbies, your interests in a straight line, then drifting off towards mentioning the really important stuff. The information about yourself that few knew, the truth about yourself that made you who you are. The wounds that made you wake up in the middle of the night, crying from pain. Your fears.

All of that.

He liked gardening ― it was his passion. He loved sailing ― it was his life. He was a retired Royal Navy officer (she thought he was too young to be retired, so there had to be more behind that story...). He couldn't cook to save his life. He wanted to travel the world again and again and  _again_. He knew how to play the guitar and the piano. As of right now, his favorite TV show was anything and everything on the Discovery channel. He loved to read ― especially classic literature. He knew Homer's  _Odyssey_  by heart. He had a sense of humor.

His replies were almost charming in their eloquence, and she found herself laughing more than once at his cheeky questions. He managed to weasel out of her her secret interests, her most wanted career, her love for hot chocolate with cinnamon sprinkled on top of the whipped cream. In a series of words and well chosen sentences, through simple paper and ink, he learned about her, and she learned about him.

He left her ( _sometimes badly constructed_ ) pastries and sandwiches ― each day, she wrote for him simple recipes with detailed step-by-step directions on thick note cards, and slowly but surely, his culinary skills improved. A beautiful leather-bound journal and fountain pen were awaiting her after she said how lonely she got on weekend nights; she gave him a stack of DVDs (several BBC series and even a few ol' Disney films) and told him to lighten up his entertainment agenda.

Truth be told, Emma was looking forward to his messages. Though he didn't speak to her, there was just something about him...the mystery and intrigue of his seclusion, the solemn respect that had grown between them. As a result, colleagues at school would ask her to join them clubbing ― she said  _no_  ― and she would turn down any guys who asked her out (even that cute Irishman named Graham). She would always give them the same excuse:  _I have other plans._ But heck, she had always been something of a loner...

It all simply meant she was anticipating the moment she would again cross the threshold of his home.

In class, in between the pages of her textbook, she would most secretly attempt to draw his face, remembering the striking blue of his eyes and the handsome outline of his jaw. The other notes ― the ones she had so despised, where he ordered her about ― had become long, personal letters about  _them_ , orders be damned...and against her will, she was mesmerized.

_By him._

Ergo, she couldn't stop thinking about him. It was irrational and stupid and crazy ― she hated him, right, because he was such a  _jerk_? ― but underneath all that, she was drawn. No, she was  _pulled_  by some unknown force to keep going there, caring less and less if she was working for free or not. Worrying less if she was falling and dropping under some enigmatic spell, where she lost her anger and felt  _joy_  instead at being inside a seemingly empty house, talking only with her pen and her housework.

This wasn't a matter of work or fear for her anymore. Here she was, _wanting_  ― almost amicably ― to be there for him. Not out of obligation or pity, but out of...she didn't know what.

Strangest of all, it was all under the table and never face-to-face, this most odd friendship in bloom, and sometimes she asked herself if any of it was real...

_But damn it, what bothered her most was that she didn't even know his name..._

* * *

She knew something was definitely wrong when there was no note on the door that evening. Her senses tingled further from sudden dread when she found the door locked.

He had never missed even one single goddamn day. Not even on holidays. Needless to say, he didn't celebrate them ― a choice they had in common.

Without a second thought, she knocked. Hard, desperately, and rhythmically. When there was no answer, the next resort was a bobby pin out of her hair and resuscitating her lock-picking talents.

She was inside in less than a minute.

The rooms looked normal, for the most part ― but the food was untouched. Emma shivered when she approached his bedroom door, knowing that consequences of disturbing him like this could be dire. After all, he could just be fast asleep after getting laid or something like that, right?

Her gut, shouldered by her instincts, told her (in a disgusted tone) that he didn't appear to be that type of guy. Plus, she kind of knew him and his habits after 3 months and 1 day ( _still counting_ ) of coming here and reading his letters.

"Uh, hello?" she asked timidly, knocking. "Is anyone there?"

The sound of silence.

This door was locked as well, but the doorknob was...indestructible, made of solid brass and with no keyhole in sight. So Emma focused on her inner strength, recalled those short-lived karate lessons she took in high school, and kicked the darn thing open.

What she saw made her cry out and drop to the floor.

* * *

"In plain English?" The doctor cleared his throat, shifting nervously from foot to foot. "He almost died from alcohol poisoning. If you hadn't called when you did...well, let's just say his fate would look much more...bleak." A wry, very small half-smile crossed his lips. "Trust me, I know from personal experience."

Emma nodded, barely able to see straight. When the physician cleared his throat again, as if expecting her to say something in reply, she peered at his ID tag ―  _Dr. Victor Whale, was it?_  ― and extended her hand. "Thank you, doctor."

He shook it warmly. "Don't worry too much, now ― your boyfriend will recover slowly, but he  _will_  live, Miss Swan."

After reassuring her again that all would be well, he left her alone in the hospital room, staring at the bed before her and the figure in it.

She hadn't bothered to correct Dr. Whale about the relationship status between her and  _Killian Jones_ , because what would be the point? Right now, she was still trying to absorb the fact of  _his name_ , let alone that he had literally tried to kill himself by drinking so much rum and whiskey that his blood was polluted with it. Or so the kindly nurse had told her during her final checkup on the patient.

She wanted to feel horrified, scandalized, disgusted ― anything but the overwhelming sadness that fell over her like a shadow when she looked at Jones, unconscious and dressed in the hospital's generic finery. It was too harsh a reminder of how she had felt when Neal had dropped the other shoe on her, when he had betrayed her and left her to rot in jail for what  _he_  had done. How she had felt as a child, when―

It felt so acutely like abandonment.

But she wasn't Jones' girlfriend ― she really wasn't his  _anything_ , and his problems certainly had nothing to do with her.

Then why...why did she pity him? Why did she understand it so well, the longing to let go and forget, forget,  _forget_  all the double-sided crap that life had thrown at you and fight back the only way you knew how? Why did she want to brush away those errant locks of hair from his forehead, to hold his hand as he lay there, believing there was nothing to live for?

Why did she blame him for this rise of compassion, this urge to break and break into a thousand pieces? Why did she feel... _betrayed_?

Why had her heart clenched when the paramedics first said there was a high chance he might die in the ambulance before they reached the hospital?  _Why did she even care?_

Seeing him so broken...bruises along his face, his knuckles torn and bleeding...his bedroom a cluttered, utterly destroyed mess...his lifeless body, contorted as it rested on the floor... It had nearly shattered her ability to function normally, coherent speech and calm demeanor completely nonexistent.

He was very good-looking ( _yes, he was_ ). He was intelligent and witty. Charming too, when he put his mind to it (was she  _defending_  him?). And, God, she had forgiven the asshole already ― probably long before she had realized it―

Emma's eyes watered, and she gritted her teeth in an attempt to quiet her rising anger. The pain inside was opening up, like a monstrous tidal pool sucking her in.  _How dare he ― how dare he assume he had the right to end it all?_  She bit back a sob, sinking into the uncomfortable chair by his side.  _How dare he do this to her ― re-open everything she'd tried so hard to bury inside―_

She remembered performing her best idea of CPR on him when she had come to her senses and knelt beside him, pleading aloud for him to awaken. His too cold lips on hers ― a terrible first kiss, she would have joked ― as she breathed and breathed into him, thumping on his chest periodically. Shakily taking out her cell phone and dialing 911. The operator asking her to stay on the line until help arrived.

The paramedics asking her if she was his significant other, any thought of denial flying from her head. The way she had flushed red when they asked her for his name and insurance information. The hours and hours she had to wait in the emergency room, waiting for the doctor to stay the magic words "he's stable." The whispers she heard among the staff about Jones being on "suicide watch." His helpless state. His expressionless face, drained of torture and torment and agony. He almost looked... _happy_.

Happy to be dead and departed.

Grasping at the wallet ―  _his_  wallet, which she still hadn't peeked at ― inside her pocket to make sure it was still there, she fingered his house keys with her other hand, needing nothing more than to go back to her wretched little hole of an apartment and hide under the thick bedsheets.

She couldn't. She wanted to stay here, with him. Even if it killed  _her_.

_Because she liked him, dammit._

Resting her head in her hands, she glanced at the closed door, then at Killian Jones, before bursting into tears, willing the tension and exhaustion to depart.

_The tragedy, the misery...the punishment never stopped._

In the beginning, she had promised herself that she would hate him for all eternity, that she wouldn't give a damn ― but, somehow, she had become attached to him. A mystery in itself. Or not so much. Somewhere, along his humble offerings and gifts and notes and letters, she had formed some kind of bond with him. The icing on the cake was that she thought she knew him, but after all this, she really didn't know him at all.

That didn't change the fact that she wasn't going to let him go ― not without a fight. Not on her watch.

Killian Jones and Emma Swan ― they weren't strangers any longer. It was high time to stop pretending that they were.

All these months, she hadn't seen him, hadn't heard him. But now, she did.

Now, she would.

* * *

When he woke up five hours later, her arms were stretched out on the flimsy sheets and her eyes were half-lidded from bad sleep as she took in the sight of him. He groaned, turning his head towards the wall.

"Oh no ― not  _you_."

* * *


	2. Part 2 - Heart Attacked

Emma had never been the type of person who made friends easily. She was a self-proclaimed introvert, one who always walked alone. She had fallen in love ― just once ― and she had literally been shoved into the jaws of hell for it. It was she, and she alone, who had pushed herself into college once she was out of prison, and with a crappy part-time job and the cheapest rent she could afford, she had picked herself up from the confusion and anguish Neal had left behind him when he took her heart, her love, and her hopes away from her.

Hearing Killian ― no,  _Jones_  ― indirectly dismiss her had aroused more than a little selfishness in her. He was rejecting all she had done for him, all she had  _felt_  for him, and it was maddening.

Injured or not, she wanted to hit him over the head with the back of a frying pan until he came to his fricking senses.

But she hadn't.

Once Dr. Whale had come around to check on his ever silent patient and assure her that he was alright, aside from the mounting surliness and despair etched into his sullen expression, she had taken the nurse's none too gentle advice to come back during visiting hours.

Still, if they hadn't practically forced her to leave, she wouldn't have, no matter if the mysterious man she had grown to like was literally and figuratively turning his back on her.

 _That just goes to show_ , Emma told herself sadly as she pushed the key into the lock,  _that you can't rely on anyone but yourself_.

Stepping in Jones' house when it was empty was a decidedly unnerving experience. The walls, the floor, the barren furniture ― they all screamed out their owner's absence, and she felt like she was tiptoeing through a forbidden land.

It got worse when she hesitantly approached the doorway of his bedroom.

The very moment she laid a hand on the door handle, her mind was barraged by images: Jones crumpled on the floor, unconscious and cold as stone. A large bottle half-filled with rum at his right, a wrinkled photograph that seemed worn and faded at his left.

The woman captured in that very photo was also sitting on top of his dresser, set in a silver frame. Though her facial features were too blurred to make out, she was smiling, carefree and with a look of love on her face.

As for his stash of alcohol...

The bed was still unmade, the curtains drawn, the air musty and thick from being confined for nearly a week. Everything was as she left it, but nothing was the same. She hadn't been here until now.

Opening the window, she let the sunshine in to ward off the stench of death's brief visit. Emma inspected the room once more, noting Jones' propensity for reminders ― another photo here, a painted portrait of a man who resembled him over there, more books by his bed ― before deciding to give the area a thorough cleaning. It surely needed it.

So for the rest of the afternoon, she swept away the remnants of that horrible morning, extending her sanitizing abilities to the entire house. Classical music played in the background from the newly discovered CD player as she went through the refrigerator's contents, tied up the rotting garbage bags, and vacuumed the rugs, running the dishwasher and mopping the kitchen floor to boot. It was strenuous and annoyingly mundane, but Emma took comfort in the familiar routine and realized that she was finished before sunset.  _As usual. How ironic._

She went to turn off the lights, careful to check that all was locked tight and secure ― and then she saw one of his notes to her, stained and rumpled and lonely, discarded behind the sofa. The words ―  _his_  words struck a mournful chord in her, though they were anything but sad, a touch of humor and kindness smeared between the lines. The numbness left her then, however she pleaded with it to stay, and soon she was crying out in protest, wanting to shut the door and not get out to face the dusk.

Emma didn't want to be stuck in her little apartment all alone, accompanied by only a stack of overdue school assignments and work worries. She didn't also want to be stifled here by Killian's harbored pain and tragedies, regrets and unfulfilled wishes hiding in the cupboards and the dusty corners.

When she found a large collection of whiskey and rum bottles gathered in the pantry closet, she lost control of her temper and proceeded to dump them all into a large trash bag, carrying them outside with a vengeance until she threw them forcefully into the bottom of the recycling container, enjoying the sound of tumbling, breaking glass and swishing, escaping liquid.

 _No remorse_.

However, irate and crumbling inside as she was, she clung desperately to the scents and sights within Killian's sanctuary. Making herself at home as best she could, she used the shower, blessed herself for taking a clean change of clothes with her just in case of grime ( _a well thought out precaution_ ), and tried to whip up something from the remnants of food lurking about. Eventually, three servings of hot chicken noodle soup and a stack of saltine crackers later, Emma was chewing slowly on a bunch of rather crunchy peanut butter cookies she'd managed to procure.

The food wasn't alleviating her disposition, unfortunately. Everywhere her eyes glanced, she could picture him, even though she had never really seen him there. He had hidden himself from her so well, in so many ways, and he clearly had no intention of stopping. But somehow, unconsciously, he was ingrained into the very fibers of the wooden walls, his presence almost tangible as she sat on the bar stool by the kitchen counter, sipping a tall glass of milk sweetened with honey.  _His own recommendation for insomnia_.

It was surreal ― all of it. His fall from survival, his self-inflicted injury, his contempt for himself, her reaction, her unwillingness to let him go and slip away.  _This could almost be some twisted fairy tale_ , she drily marveled after slipping into the extra large t-shirt she could only assume belonged to  _him_.

Inhaling his natural musk and the smallest hint of cologne, she first turned off all the lights except for in the bathroom and barricaded the door before settling herself into the guest bedroom. Pulling the sheets and cuddly blanket around her like an endearing cocoon, Emma yawned widely and acknowledged how much of a toll this whole experience was taking on her body and her energy.

But the more she told herself that she couldn't possibly go to sleep, stress and anxiety making her head pound and her stomach ache, the more tightly she shut her eyelids, inviting dark to dispel light and encourage her rest.

_Let the new day come._

* * *

There was no one to see her, no one to watch the way she stared at the dying blooms. Finally, she was allowed to feel them, but there was no point or pleasure in it now. The rose petals were streaked with brown and orange, a sign of winter and certain death, the strong stench of decay permeating the chilly air. And as Emma stalked the fence posts, going from rosebush to rosebush, she realized what the nearly flowerless stems and stalks, now devoid of color, reminded her of.

The thorns, the edge of a sword in their tips and danger in their touch, were still entwined, unbroken like the links of chains. The dark screen they had formed around the home of Killian Jones, shielding his very existence from the rest of the normal world, was much like a wall ―  _his_  wall. He held the barriers up because he didn't want to let anyone in, not when they could threaten to destroy the one thing that kept  _light_  and  _humanity_  and  _life_  out. Safety and protection and abounding loneliness, all rooted in.

She had recognized that wall of his, because in truth, it looked all too similar to her own.

Wanting to drive away that aura of departure that was sweeping through the rooms and the yard during every moment their owner was gone, Emma took charge. She pulled up the blinds and pinned back the shutters, calling in the sun. While the dust flew out through open windows, she tied back the drawstrings of the shades to ensure that there wouldn't be interference of any kind. A small dish of rose oil was placed in the kitchen, the bathroom, and the two bedrooms, and she was careful to place a rather large helping of the fragrance in an unseen spot.

Other than those changes, the prospects were rather bleak.

* * *

When she set foot in the hospital again, it was after a full day of school and work, both back to back. There was no escaping her boss' prodding, her classmates' annoying questions covered by fake concern. But throughout it all, she focused on  _his_  face,  _his_  steady breaths, her hopes and prayers that  _he_  would stay alive.

 _Yes, she wanted so desperately for him to live._ But she didn't know how to pinpoint what she felt for this stranger who was closer to her than anyone else she knew.  _It took a Lost Girl to know a Lost Boy._

Holding the worn copy of  _Peter Pan_  close to her chest, she wearily went through what the hospital staff liked to call "standard procedure" before she could visit Killian: the nurses asked too much, the waiting room stank too much, the floor looked too much like the reflection of death itself, she endured a lifetime of anxiety before she could take one step through the door of the man whom she had to see.

Still they called her his girlfriend, and still she went along with the lie. She was more desperate to be in his presence than for standing on ceremony.

He didn't tell them that he didn't want to see her, but here she was, sitting in front of him while he blatantly ignored her. Dr. Whale had been all professional smiles and discreet decorum, insisting that his patient's release date has been set for the following week. The way one of the nurses eyed a very distant, very grumpy Jones was not encouraging, however. In comparison to what she had seen so far, his room was rather spotless, but...

Worse than his house, it reeked of his stubbornness, his infuriating refusal to acknowledge anyone's pain but his own, his damn selfishness, and ―  _damn it. Why wouldn't he just speak to her?_

"So..." she began uncertainly, fidgeting in the uncomfortable metal chair she'd reluctantly taken from the corner and moved to his bedside. "The doctor said you'll be free to go soon." Emma tried her best to sound excited and happy.

The terrible look Killian gave her before facing away, yet again, silenced everything she was feeling and thinking. Her blood was ice and her heart was frozen inside her chest. His next words shattered both.

"Why did you have to ruin it?" His voice was so full of loathing, of merciless self-hate, that Emma was suddenly frightened by being faced with the enormity of his problems.

"What are you talking about?" she backtracked nervously, gripping the sides of the book harder. She still had not shown it to him, and it seemed she wouldn't get an opportunity to do so. How could she read to him a tale about living forever by being young at heart, about the pains and joys of both childhood and adulthood, about the value of growing up and the price of innocence?

It was as plain as day that he still wanted to die.

Shifting until he had raised himself up on his arms, sitting upright with his back hitting the hospital bed's headboard, he grimaced as the IV needles moved restlessly under his skin, as the horror of living was clearly made more unbearable by the reality of his physical injuries. His hand-less left arm fidgeted, and Emma was struck by the pitiful, heart-rending picture before her.

"I mean," he growled out, teeth bared, "that everything was proceeding as it should. I was ready ― as ready as I ever could be ― but you  _ruined_  it all. You let them save me, when I obviously  _wanted_  this." He was staring through her, his eyes burning her soul. "You forced yourself into my life, ever since you touched that bloody rose, and ― and you have no right.  _You have no right_."

She wanted so badly to sob, to scream at him, to explain why she felt he was worth saving, but all she could see was her own anger, her hurt.  _Again, she was rejected._  Again, she was spurned, all for the simple act of caring too much. "No right?" she whispered, biting her lower lip to restrain herself from crying in front of him. Then her tone hardened as what had been growing and boiling inside since she had found him unconscious on the floor came out into the light. "Do you even know...how much your stunt has cost  _me_? How much I have  _suffered_  in the process? How much I have  _sacrificed_ , not only this past week, but all these months when I've been  _slaving_  and  _toiling_  and  _scraping_ , and all for you?" She choked on stuttered breaths but held fast, her voice now loud and unyielding. "I've been sitting here for days, waiting for you to awaken, and all you can say to me is how much you despise me for  _preventing_  your suicide?"

He smiled coldly. "Actually, the question is why did you bother, when it would have been so much easier for you to have left me there on the floor? Wasn't it clear that I had chosen my path?"

"A path of self-destruction, you mean?" she nearly shouted, unable to reprove him without exposing herself. "Only cowards want to escape so desperately!"

" _Cowards?_ " His face was now a deep shade of red, his jaw clenching. "Bloody hell, it's  _my_  damn life, you daft girl ― and what kind of life is it when you have nothing to live for!" he yelled back, his fisthold tightening on the sheets. " _You_  shouldn't have gotten involved ― you shouldn't have stopped me ― it's not your damn duty! In fact, you should have been  _happy_  that you wouldn't be inflicted anymore with the bloody savage who forced you under blackmail to be his servant ― the grimy pieces of a man who tormented you and made you so miserable ― the  _monster_  who made you clean his filthy house and endure his filth every single day―"

"Because I  _liked_  you!" she cried out, hiding her face in her hands as a sob finally emerged from her throat. It was a wonder that no one came rushing in to witness the heated argument when they were nearly at each other's throats, making the very walls shake from terror. "I still do ― and this may have started out with me... _disliking_  you, but it didn't end that way. It doesn't have to. If you wanted me to hate you so much," she murmured brokenly, daring to peek at him, "then why...why did you  _speak_  to me in your letters? Why did you  _write_  to me, words I wanted to carry with me everywhere? Why did you  _see_  me, when I barely saw you? Why drag me along on your ride of self-pity, when I have only ever tried so fricking hard to  _please_  you?" By this time, she was crying in earnest, tears leaking into her mouth and her nose as she attempted to wipe them away in time and failed.

His expression morphed slightly, as if he had allowed emotion to invade it, and then, weakly, his right hand stretched slowly toward her, reaching for her. " _Emma_ ," he rasped quietly, his gaze dimming. "I―"

But she couldn't listen anymore. She only heard him say "me me  _me_ " and it was echoing, convincing her that she had once more let her heart betray her. Dropping the book on the bed, right beside his lap, she tore her jacket off from the back of the chair and raced to the door, yanking it open and slamming it behind her.

She never looked back. Because the weight of his gaze would only crush her further.

* * *

Emma didn't visit the hospital again. And she didn't go the day Killian was supposed to be released either. Finally, she was convinced of her utter unimportance to him and how he never wanted to see her again. She sickened him, obviously...disgusted him...and she couldn't do right by him. He thought she was there out of obligation, out of fear, when all she had ever wanted...

_She didn't know what she wanted from him, though. A friend? A sympathizer? Consolation? Compassion?_

The loneliness of those thoughts, of how she had paid such a devastating price to gain a few memories of comfort, was cutting her deeply.

School drifted in and out of monotony, and as for work... Well, it was dull, as could be expected. Being a simple clerk was like that, unfortunately.

When she stumbled over the doorway of her apartment, the blank walls and frigid corners taunted her. The roses, in their simplicity and innocence, had brought some semblance of beauty to her life in all its repetitive sadness and senselessness, but now, that was gone. They were standing dead in his backyard. And her hopes...whatever they had been...they were gone too.

4 months she had watched them from behind a frail white-washed fence ( _one that sorely needed repairs_ ). She had witnessed blooms become flowers, flowers become empty seeds, the cycle of plant life in all its stages. She had smelt the intoxicating perfume, captured the priceless beauty in the memory of her eyes and remaining senses.

4 more months...4 months and 14 days ( _and still counting_ ) since she had agreed to be part of Killian's one-man household, viewing his nonexistent life through the windows she had cleaned, basking in the tiny part of his attention he had afforded her.

For a little while, both had been her life. She had left the mundane in the background and brought a sad, lonely, neglected man and his home into the foreground. School and work...they had a place in her life, but not in her heart. That was reserved. And she knew exactly who for, even if it hurt so much to say it, to even think it.

 _It was inevitable, wasn't it?_  She would never see the roses...or  _him_...again.

It was hard, trying to get over what Killian Jones had told her in that dismal hospital room. One would think he really  _was_  her boyfriend and she was surviving a break-up, the way she was moping about, unable to find any peace.

Then, as misery never failed to find her, things got infinitely worse.

* * *

Refurbishing the shelves and counting products at the grocery was nice and boring, and it paid what little bills she had, but then ― then she got her student loan statement. Just like that, her creditors had decided to raise the interest rates on her, some lousy explanation etched in fine print at the bottom of the letter about rising costs and whatnot. Emma had received a significant amount of financial aid when she had enrolled, but what help it was didn't cover everything.

And now she had to pay the piper, as the saying went. Unless she could pay back the loan in full by the end of the month, they were raising the interest rate by ten percent. For some, that would be a minimal change, but for someone saving on food by eating only one meal a day, scrounging around for coupons in the newspaper, and surviving on minimum wage, it was catastrophic.

She wouldn't be able to pay the rent with only the salary from her one job.

At first, she had gone into a full-blown, desperate panic, and having no one to vent her worries to, she ended up crying on the floor, watching as her tears sank into the flimsy carpet of her tiny living room. When the walls of the place were closing in on her, suffocating her with their silence, she fled, taking a quick stroll through the nearby streets.

Her walk turned into a several-hour trek, and that's when she saw it.

The diner was a comely little place, and it had been in business forever, apparently. Same old-fashioned wallpaper like in the fifties, swivel high chairs and smooth, reflective, laminated counter straight out of  _Grease_. The lady in charge called herself Granny, and she was, in fact, exactly that. As unbending and strict as iron toward the teenage miscreants who entered her establishment, kind and knowledgeable toward her regulars and shy newcomers, the grandmotherly woman was the epitome of what a restaurant owner should be like.

That's exactly why Emma took advantage of the "help wanted" sign posted in the front window and immediately asked for work. Hearing of her experiences in customer service and her devotion to her classes, Granny hired her on the spot and told her to take the evening shift. She also mentioned some light cooking might be involved when the cook was overwhelmed with orders, but Emma only nodded enthusiastically and accepted the red apron she gave her.

The rest of the evening was spent accustoming herself to her new work environment, meeting the customers, and attending the cook, but despite Ruby's eye-rolling and provocative comments ―  _had Granny actually said this girl, flaunting a mini-skirt and outrageous high heels, was her granddaughter?_  ― she enjoyed it.  _Mornings at the store, midday and afternoon at school, evenings at Granny's Diner_ , Emma hummed to herself as she waved at her pleased new employer, smiled, and waltzed out the door when the time came to close shop.

At least...at least she didn't have to think of the past when she was there. At least, when she was there, she didn't feel so alone.

Maybe her life wasn't a vicious circle of unhappiness. Maybe she had finally gotten a break from it.

* * *

The tranquility of her existence, however temporary, was interrupted in less than a week.

A new manager was hired in the grocery store where she worked, her old familiar one mysteriously gone. Not that she was complaining. He had always acted like an electrocuted ass.

But this one...this one considered himself quite the charmer. And the looker. She could have sworn he winked at her when he came to meet all the employees and tour the store.

The second annoyance was when her landlord pestered her when she was descending the stairs, intending to make it on time to class for once. He said a man had come asking for her in the morning, when she was at work.

Flashes crossed her eyes, flashes of that night in that alley, where she had been handcuffed and humiliated and  _ruined_. That word... She bit down on her lower lip, afraid to demand a description of the stranger. It could have been Neal. Or it could have been―

"I told him you were out, though. He was wearing a leather jacket ― dark hair, wearing boots... Though to look at his eyes, bloodshot as hell ― acting all jittery and anxious, too. Either he's a drunk or a dope user or both, I said to myself." The dried up old man gave her a nasty grin. "Wasn't willing to let him in at all in the first place, but then he said your name, and well, a girl like you...who am I to tell you what company you should keep, eh?"

His lewd comment was meant to be a slap in the face, but for once she turned the other cheek (figuratively) and focused instead on how the thought of Killian Jones coming to see her both scared and excited her.

When she barricaded her door that night and tiptoed around the following morning in only socks so her shoes wouldn't clack against the kitchen floor, it was clear which reaction was stronger. Of course she wondered why he was here, invading her personal space when he had stated so effectively his antagonism toward her. Of course a little part of her, small and unheard, rushed when she pictured his face and form and presence so near her.

But if she saw him again, the anguish of that encounter would surely give her a heart attack. Neal or Killian, both men were trouble.

Trouble she wanted to avoid. Trouble she didn't need. Trouble she didn't want.

Neither of them were worth the trouble.

* * *

It was a sigh of relief that escaped her lips when her landlord never again mentioned any strangers lurking about her door, wanting to visit her. But then again, she had bigger problems.

The main one was named Walsh.

Walsh was a rigorous accountant, a decent salesman, and a well-liked manager overall, but she started feeling very uncomfortable going to her morning job after certain... _incidents_.

The first was when he seemingly bumped into her when she was going through the aisles and collecting expired goods.

The second was when he brushed her hip with his while walking back from the coffee machine in the staff room.

The third was when he squeezed her shoulder after handling a particularly irate customer.

The fourth was when he arranged her breaks so that he was always present in the staff room when she was.

She could be wrong about how awkward and wrong this all appeared to be ― but still, he didn't need to be touching her to communicate with her. He was very good with words when he talked, so why all the bravado and.. _groping_?

He started being everywhere she went and appearing where she would be. Even when he was paged over the intercom to come to the front and help out another cashier, he would find all sorts of excuses to hang around, from "double-checking your work" to "assisting you with cleaning the floor" and "let me help you stack the oranges into a perfect pyramid."

To some girls, that might be cute attention, but to her, it was plain  _stalking_. He was her boss, and that was it. She tried to make it clear that she in no way welcomed his advances, but no matter how she smoothly rejected his company and refused his actions in as polite a manner as possible, he didn't get the hint.

Or perhaps he didn't want to take a hint and  _leave her be_.

"Has he touched any other part of you that's not your hand?" Ruby inquired shamelessly as she took an empty tray back to the kitchen, impatiently tapping at the window counter with her long red fingernails while she waited for the next order to be ready.

Emma fiddled with her pad and pencil, chewing on the eraser absently. "Not yet. But he's following me everywhere in the store, and it's becoming a nuisance."

"Well, if he follows you here, I'll get my old crossbow out and shoot at him," Granny offered with a dark chuckle, scoffing.  _Men_ , she mouthed at the ceiling, shaking her head. Emma and Ruby shared an amused laugh.

 _Walsh wasn't the end of the world_ , she scolded herself later after closing the diner. He was just some foolish guy, probably hoping to get laid. He probably wasn't some creepy stalker with sinister intentions.

Emma kept reminding herself of that for days afterwards, but she didn't really believe it.

She only knew that she didn't want any man to ever touch her again.

* * *

"Hello?" Emma snapped, frustrated from frantically searching for her phone under the sofa and from that stupid chemical reaction problem she had been working on for the past half hour.

"Hello, am I speaking with Miss Emma Swan?" came Dr. Whale's cheery voice, clearly not experiencing any impatience on his end.

"Um, yes...?" she murmured, watching as her books and pencils slid to the floor. Damn, she must have dropped them on recognizing who was calling.

"Oh ― I apologize if I've disturbed you, Ms. Swan―"

She sighed into the speaker. "Please, call me Emma. And no, it's okay ― I wasn't doing anything...special." Except for schoolwork she hated with a passion.

He chuckled. "I understand, Emma. To get to the point...the reason I'm contacting you is Killian."

Emma nearly stopped breathing. "Oh?" she stuttered, pacing across the cheap laminated floor of her kitchen. "What's going on?"

"Frankly, you're the only person on Killian's contact list, and as his girlfriend...well, I'm not sure what's going on between the two of you, but I never had a chance to talk to you when he was released from my care―"

"Maybe you should have talked to  _him_."

"Oh, I did ― but I have no idea if he listened or not. I had an appointment with him for a follow-up on his internal injuries, but he didn't show up. I was concerned and wanted to call him, but he never wrote down his phone number."

 _That would be because he doesn't have one_ , Emma groaned to herself. She said between her teeth, "I, uh, can't  _make_  him go see you, you know."

"Of course not ― it's his right to refuse, and it is his decision. However...under the circumstances, I needed to confirm with you that he is doing okay."

This was starting to sound suspicious. "Um, why? He obviously was well enough to walk out of the hospital after you signed him out, so..."

"Emma." Now Dr. Whale sounded a little vexed. More than a little, maybe, but he was keeping it in check because he was a professional, and professionals are supposed to have nice "poker" voices that don't betray how annoyed they are. "Let's be honest with each other, shall we? Your boyfriend almost committed suicide, and it was because he came in with you that I didn't transfer him to psychiatric care and I kept him under my own supervision."

"Wait...because of  _me_?"

"Yes, I was convinced that therapy was an option he would be able to discuss with you in a more personal environment, and at a pace good for both of you. Usually, procedure is that if a patient is hospitalized without a blood relative present or available, the physician has the authority to make the best choice for the patient's health and well-being. I saw the state you were in when you came with the paramedics, and I honestly thought that pushing Killian into a mental health ward to be constantly watched was the last thing either of you needed."

Ah. So that's why the nurses were whispering about  _suicide watch_ , why they gave Killian odd looks. He wasn't supposed to be in the emergency room in the first place. Emma shuffled the phone a bit and sat down heavily on the couch, huffing slightly. "And what exactly do you want  _me_  to do about all this? Killian and I..." She swallowed. "We're not together anymore."

"Oh." He was defeated. "I see. Would you mind telling me how I can reach him?"

She covered her face with one hand, pushing away that nagging sense of empathy as far away from her as possible. She didn't feel sorry for Killian Jones ― she wouldn't― "Actually, you know as much as I do. The man doesn't have a phone ― all he has is an address." Silence on the other end of the line. "Thank you for all your help, Dr. Whale, but there isn't anything I can do. Not anymore."

She didn't hear him protest when she disconnected, throwing her phone into the wastebasket full of paper. Forgetting about her chemistry assignment, she lay down on her back, cushions piled under her head, and stared up at the unfriendly ceiling.

Killian hadn't gone to see the doctor, he had mysteriously found her apartment and then disappeared without a word, he wasn't communicating with anyone...

Her curiosity was telling her to go back. Back to the roses.  _No, that could just be guilt._

Her pride was reining her in, saying he didn't deserve to see her again.  _But she wanted to see him._

Her sleep, filled with restless dreams, reflected that conflict, and when she woke the next morning, her skin covered in sweat and tears, the pull of that impending choice was suffocating her.

To go or not to go.

To care or to forget.

What should she do?

_Hmph, dilemmas are such a pain in the ass._

* * *

The whole question of whether to dare to check on the house of thorns or to stay away for her own sake had been bugging her all week long. Emma's attitude had been affected as well, and right now she was grumpy, tense, and distant.

Walsh's current behavior was not helping at all.

The man was like a monkey in his limited understanding of what personal space is. Twice today he had crept up behind her when she was manning the cash register, and when she had (however reluctantly) needed him to change the cash box inside and replace it with another, he did not let her step out first. Instead, he piled into the small square of floor where she was standing, squeezing their bodies together until Emma could have sworn she felt something  _move_  down there where his thigh was brushing up her skirt, his face way too close to hers. He took longer completing the task than necessary, complaining about "complications" and making every excuse about mechanical deficiencies. The wide smile he gave her afterwards made her grimace in return, and she muttered under her breath, _pardon me, I have to go to the restroom now and puke_.

He was still grinning like an idiot when she turned her head for the umpteenth time to see if he would cross the ultimate line and grab her. Harmless, lovesick fool? Maybe. But if he put those hands of his on her...he had another thing coming.

After she had clocked out and was leaving for the day, happy that all of her classes had been canceled at the last minute and she would have some free time before going to Granny's, Emma was accosted again by Walsh as she was walking through the back parking lot to get to the other main street.

"Emma?" he asked, hands in his pockets.

She smiled painfully. "What can I do for you, boss?"

"Hey, there's no need for that!" he said with a laugh. "Listen ― there's this great place around the corner, and they have the best Italian spaghetti you've ever tasted. If you're not doing anything right now, maybe we could―"

A door chimed to welcome a customer into the store next door, but the noise made Emma jump. Shaking her head, licking her lips, she awkwardly began, "Look...you're my boss, and I work here ― that's one reason ― but even if that weren't part of the picture, I'm not...I don't...I don't  _date_. Anyone. Ever."

His eyes narrowed, but then the most mischievous expression altered his face, and when he grinned wickedly at her, she was suddenly afraid. "I never said I was particularly interested in starting a relationship, Emma ― but physical  _comfort_...that I can definitely work with." When he walked forward, she walked backward.

"No, you're misunderstanding me," she replied, irritated beyond belief at his interpretation of her rejection. If she could, she would stomp her foot at him. "I can't be  _anything_  with you. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever."

He was cornering her, pushing her against the wall until she blocked by both of his arms and unable to escape. Looking around to see if they were out of earshot and the lot was empty, he growled, "So why have you been leading me on all these weeks? Wearing skirts so I can see those legs of yours, legs I want wrapped around me when I screw you? Feeling your hips...hips I want to ride until you're good and sore?"

She was in such a state of shock that she couldn't say anything back, her mind fluttering with words and phrases like  _sexual harassment_  and  _he's going to try to rape me_  and  _run_. "Get away from me," she hoarsely shouted, holding her purse up in front of her face as a weapon of self-defense.

He simply laughed, one hand drifting down until it groped her breast and squeezed it through her shirt. "Not when I have such a wonderful opportunity." His hand went lower and started rising beneath her skirt. "Don't fight me, and I'll make you assistant manager."

All of her life, Emma had taken her falls and picked herself up again. Neal had torn her into pieces, but she had survived. Survival. It was her talent. It was her goal. It was every person's goal, but it was even more so hers because she was the downtrodden and ignored, the beaten and abused. She had more to battle than others did, and she would not be defeated.

Especially not by this savage animal who was preparing to take advantage of her.

When she did the all-time classic move and thrust her knee up hard, his hands reflexively went to his groin in a classic reaction to pain. She then lifted her purse as much as she could and slapped it across his face. It wasn't martial arts, but the momentary distraction allowed her slip out of his grasp and run, not stopping until she was by the busy intersection and out of his sight.

She had decided to take the bus in order to prevent Walsh from finding out where she lived, but then she remembered that he could easily read that information in her file at work. She had sat stiffly in the bus seat, not daring to glance at the other passengers...but then, at home, she had shut the door behind her, thrown her purse on the floor, and curled up into a ball in her bed.

She had promised herself that she'd never cry again after Neal ―  _after Killian_  ― but it seemed fate was altering that choice for her.

Again.

In the evening, the diner had held some small measure of comfort ― Ruby's ear-bleeding curses against Walsh and Granny's death threats against him ― but when the night truly came and she was all alone again, she felt the same fears and the same longing.

_The longing for someone...anyone...to really give a damn about her, to hold her in their arms and keep the shadows and nightmares away. To help her chase the fear into the darkness, where it belonged._

* * *

The next morning was one of the hardest Emma had ever had to go through in her entire life, but, of course, Walsh was nowhere to be found. She didn't see him for the whole day, and not once did he pop up next to her during her shift or while she visited the staff room.

Then, when she happily pulled out the paycheck stub that had been slipped into her locker, she found out exactly why.

Being furious past the point of no return is one of the most empowering feelings in the world. The high energy, raging pulse, fearlessness combined with recklessness ― irresistible. You genuinely believe you can conquer any foe, brave any danger...consequences be damned.

With this in mind, Emma was marching from the staff room to the manager's office, and without so much as a knock, she yanked the door open as forcefully as she could. Oh yeah...Walsh was there. In his chair. His transformation instantaneous, from arrogant prick to pale and deadly afraid. His smirk gone. His eyes not meeting hers but constantly flickering about the room, his anxiety wafting in the air like some goddamn scent she could track.

_Excellent._

Hand on her hip and the other clutching her paycheck, she took action immediately.  _I should have kicked his ass weeks ago._

"You son of a bitch!"

* * *

One bottle of wine, cheese, crackers. Nothing that manifested a real meal. Junk food strewn across her kitchen counter. The TV on, fixed on a channel she hated.

Emma rested her head in her hands, glad that it was nighttime and that the light couldn't blind her. A migraine was enough without extra triggers.

In less than five minutes, the job she had clung to for more than a year was gone out the window. In all that time, she had worked every morning without fail and without holiday, day after day after day. And the hours had shown up, respectively, on her paycheck. She clocked in, clocked out, and money added up. The sudden drop in her most recent paycheck had been suspicious on first glance, as her work hours had not changed and she had not been absent once.

Walsh had at first vehemently denied cutting her pay to his advantage, but after much swearing and cursing on her part, not to mention a clear threat of a repeat of what she had done to him in the parking lot, he had admitted to it.

Not that there was anything she could do about the whole damn mess.

Sure, she could draft a complaint, send it higher, make a fuss out of it all. File for sexual harassment, sue Walsh for stealing her money. Heck, she could report it all to the police.

But she knew about the police and the justice system. Oh yes, she knew all about it. The corruption, the cruelty, the inhumanity.

She didn't want to have anything to do with any of it.

Instead, she had called Walsh all the names she wanted, ranted on and on until she was out of breath, yelled and screamed at him until her voice was scratchy and dry, and then...

She had resigned ― quite normally, as a matter of fact. Cleaning out her locker, removing traces of her experiences there, telling the other cashiers present to be careful, as there was an ape of a sexual predator on the loose and he was currently sitting in the manager's office. Walsh's face, all crimson red and pulsing from anger, was a glorious finale.

 _And that was the end of her grand career as a grocery clerk._  Emma glared at the blaring television and forced herself to go turn the damned box off, grabbing some more tissues on her way to the fridge. She blew her nose violently as she rummaged through the freezer for some ice cream.

There wasn't any. And hell, she didn't feel like shopping right now.

Great. Just...great.

_Knock knock knock...knock._

Her head snapped up and spun toward the source of the soft pattering, and when it happened a second time, she buried her head under the sofa pillow and prayed that whoever it was would think she wasn't home and  _go away_.

A thought entered her mind suddenly.  _What if it was Walsh, come to get revenge?_

Emma gritted her teeth and stood on her feet. Never mind that she was only wearing socks. Never mind that her slip of a t-shirt and short shorts were kind of revealing.

_She was ready to punch his face and smash his ass and give him the beating, rhetorical and other, that he deserved―_

Flinging the door open, she took one step over the threshold due to momentum and then barely stopped because of inertia.  _Damn she had never been good with science or scientific terms damn damn damn it all―_

It was like a dream, a fantasy, her imagination gone wild. She nearly choked on her own ragged breaths, because she couldn't simply believe what she was seeing.

It was impossible.

_It couldn't be._

* * *

Killian Jones. Holding a red, red rose in one hand ( _his only hand_ ). Still as handsome as ever. His striking eyes searching her face so thirstily. His dark, dark hair, so unkempt and unmistakably shaggy, asking to be caressed. His crystal blue eyes widening from relief and want and god, he was  _trembling_.

" _Swan_ ," he whispered huskily, his voice sending a thrill of longing through her.

Had she missed him so much?

Had she forgiven him so readily, when she would never do the same for anyone else?

Why was her heart nearly humming?

Why did her hands disobey her and reach out, only to pull back because  _Killian hated her_  and  _Killian despised her_?

But... _but_...here he was, in front of her.

He had searched for her.

He had found her.

One way or another,  _he cared_.

Silently, making her decision, answering his unspoken question, and never looking away from him, she invited him inside.

The slow grin he gave her turned night into day. It tore her apart. It made her smile back.

For once... _for once_...someone had come back for Emma Swan. And she was so glad it was him, of all people.

Yes... _world broken, self shaken, mind numbed, hell on earth_...in spite of all this, she was  _glad_.

* * *


	3. Part 3 - The Road Leads to You

_I'm nobody! Who are you?_

_Are you nobody, too?_

_Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!_

_They'd banish us, you know._

_How dreary to be somebody!_

…

Emily Dickinson

* * *

It was no rose from his front yard ― that was certain. It would be like comparing heaven and purgatory. But the dark maroon beauty sipping water in her vase (plastic and simple and yes, she bought it in the dollar store) was another thing altogether. Its fragrance, weak but faintly reminiscent of those of its comrades, filled her miserable little apartment until all she could think of was flowers, of sunny days spent in blossoming fields and nights used for gazing at transfixed stars.

In short, everything she never had.

Still, Emma had wanted. She had  _yearned_. Yearned so deeply that looking back, Neal and his false promises of redemption and renewal were obscured by the shadows of her fallen dreams.

But as her shitty luck would have it, she had lost even that.

A rustling in her kitchen awakened her to the fact that there currently was a guest in her residence. Turning as she slipped on her red bathrobe, she watched as Killian Jones inspected her quarters, his line of sight somewhere between the bare walls and the sad-eyed state of anti-materialism more than evident before him. Okay, it was a  _little_  amusing to see him out of his comfort zone, so out of place among her few possessions and her self-created environment.

Truth be told, she was surprised that he didn't recognize how similar her meek apartment was to his lonely house.

Or maybe he did ― and that was why he was brooding silently, tapping her kitchen counter with his fingertips as she put on the kettle, drew the only two ceramic mugs she had out of their hiding place in the cupboard, and made two cups of sweet  _rooibos_  tea.

"Sugar?" she asked quietly, not daring to say more. The way he said "please" after a sharply indrawn breath, his accent lingering on every vowel, gave her chills, and she nearly dropped three heavy teaspoons of the sweetener into his cup. Sipping the hot tea immediately and burning her tongue in the process did nothing to help, and she hastily set her serving on the side after gently pushing his toward him across the counter.

The sound of silence prevailed ― until he opened his mouth and startled her. "You're...probably wondering why I'm here," he said thoughtfully, stirring his tea with a spoon.  _Clockwise, counter-clockwise_...round and round it went, and Emma watched the ripples spread outwardly as the liquid swirled prettily in a circle.

When she found herself ready to reply, he continued, brows furrowed as he peered down at her object of attention. "Ever since...you left...I keep seeing and hearing our last conversation." His voice grew husky. "Every day...every morning...every instant I spent in that damn hospital afterwards was more of a torment than before. I closed my eyes and I saw your face, and that...that I made you cry..." Killian swallowed hard. "I hadn't felt so bloody ashamed in a long, long time. I wanted to drag you back, to tell you that I was angry and hurting and torn inside and that those words of mine were never meant to wound you, but  _me_. I wanted you," he smiled a little, "to read  _Peter Pan_  with me, because I was truly shell-shocked when you brought one of my favorite books to me."

She bent her head, staring at the crappy tiles that lined her counter. "You...you told me about it. In one of your notes," she whispered.

Then his hand reached hers, covering it with warmth and feeling. Looking up, she met his eyes, and they were searching, imploring. "If only I could take it all back ― all the wrong I've done to you. Emma...I'm so―"

"Don't say it." Emma bit her bottom lip and turned away from him, hands withdrawn into her pockets. "I've listened to that useless, meaningless,  _worthless_  phrase too many times in my life. My foster parent was  _sorry_  that he beat me, my classmates were  _sorry_  that they threw ice at my face and destroyed the inside of my locker for months on end, my teacher was  _sorry_  he hit on me." She laughed bitterly, glaring at the ceiling. "At least my boyfriend didn't say it ― but leaving me in prison for  _his_  crime without such much as a good-bye was enough of a  _sorry_  for me."

Killian was standing in front of her now. So close, and yet so far. Leaning in, he murmured, "You're right ― I don't want to be another person on that list. Even though I know that I've more than earned your hate, lass...I want to make all of this up to you. To make things right." He lifted his hand to her face, and she flinched, her eyelids shut. Soft strokes against her cheek, his fingers doing the honors, encouraged her to peer at him warily once more. "Emma, I'd like to know...what it would take for you to forgive me. I'll do anything you say."

Her eyes were prickling, her mouth was dry, and her lungs were so constricted that they ached. Licking her lips, she attempted to form a response. "How fortunate for you, then...that I've already done that. Forgiven you." She hated that her voice was shaking, that she felt this strange urge to embrace him and wipe away the pain in his expression, that every part of her body was aching because hell, she had dreamed of him letting her in and not blocking her out anymore. He sounded so sincere and heartbroken, so desperate and lonely and...

He sounded like she did, every second of every day. Despite hiding it passionately, trying so hard to be 'normal' to the world's naked eye.

Well, they obviously couldn't fool each other.  _What a pair we make_ , she mused wistfully.

He smiled sadly at her. "How unfortunate that that's not enough. I'll know that I've been forgiven by you when I can finally forgive myself. When I can look you in the eyes...and not see the scars that I've left behind."

"Egotistical much?" she chuckled half-heartedly.

"Aye," he intoned seriously, pointedly ignoring the joke. "I've been too self-absorbed for years now, and while I wish I could drive that habit away forever, it always lingers. It's an edge that I've been unable and unwilling to soften, to polish. But... _but_...it mysteriously disappeared in that moment you told me...that you wanted me to live."

"Speaking of which...why didn't you go to your follow-up with Dr. Whale?"

He raised an eyebrow at her challengingly. "Why did you tell the hospital you're my girlfriend?"

Emma blushed. "I guess... Because in that moment, you needed me to be there for you. And that was the only way I knew how." She sniffled, feeling the ache more surely now.

"And I pushed you away." His voice was hoarse and raw. It made him sound so vulnerable.

Shrugging, she took a seat on her dilapidated couch and huffed. "It doesn't matter―"

"It does.  _It does_." Tentatively, he toddled over, standing awkwardly above her. He glanced at the empty cushion next to her. After a moment, she nodded gently, and the old sofa groaned under his weight as he carefully settled onto it.

"How did you do it?"

Head bowed, elbows propped on his thighs, face hidden by his hands. When Killian emerged from his sudden meditation, it was like watching a figurine unravel itself from an intricate entanglement of limbs and bones and broken spirit. This man made even that look utterly, elegantly mesmerizing. "How did I do what, lass?" he replied hoarsely, rubbing at his eyes.

"How did you get to me?" Emma bit her lip nervously. "I never told you where I lived."

He shrugged lightly. "After all the times I watch you leave my house, I decided to just follow in your direction and see where my feet would take me."

That explanation was so ludicrous and impractical that she laughed out loud. "Yeah right." When she nudged him teasingly with her shoulder, it took her a second too long to realize what she had done. "Oh my god, I didn't mean to―"

"S'alright." Killian slowly grinned, letting darkness leave his gaze. "Well, truth be told...I asked the nurse at the front desk for your address from my emergency contact list when I was checking out of the hospital. You wouldn't believe what a little charm and flattery can do to a woman."

"Ha ha," she scoffed. "What's that joke again ― that God made women stupid so that they would be attracted to men in the first place?"

His lips twisted at the corners, and his eyes scintillated as they caught the dim glow of her living room lamp. "You have as many opinions as there are stars in the sky, Swan."

She just loved a good retort. "Especially knowing that everything we see in the night sky has taken hundreds of light-years to get to us, so what we're admiring are basically cheap, oldie images of a setting that may or may not be non-existent by now."

"Touché." His wide smile radiated the strangest kind of heat toward her, something between unnerving and positively enticing. His next words pointed to the latter. "It takes a pure heart to recognize the truth ― and voice it."

Emma fidgeted slightly, absentmindedly crossing her ankles. Gee, one moment she was asking a simple question, the next she was drawing him into a philosophical discussion.  _Just like in their notes._  It had been so difficult not to take leaps of faith in their winding conversations, written or not, that she had ultimately given up on her doubts and had just spoken her mind. Apparently, judging by the intensity of his stare, he liked when she did that.

Tension caused her body to tingle perceptively. It was time to get back on track.

Sighing deeply, she slid off the couch and started to pace, finally choosing to rummage in the kitchen and organize the chaos there while she thought of something to say, or questions to ask. Killian Jones was here in her living space and she needed to focus. Not on him, not on her, but to keep things in perspective. Focus, focus, foc―

"Emma..." His voice wavered, lengthening each syllable meaningfully. "I want you to come back."

Was it possible to feel dread and hope at the same time? She paused. "It's been almost five months now―"

"I'm not talking about that." He grimaced. "I meant...that I care less about  _that_. I should have...I should have let you go weeks ago. Months ago."

Her damn tea had been too hot. Now it was fricking cold. Emma made a face and poured it down the drain, dumping the tea bag into the garbage. "I think you made that abundantly clear in the hospital."

Groaning, he jumped up and strode toward her. "No ― not that either. I shouldn't have blackmailed you in the first place."

"Hallelujah." She rolled her eyes, tasting bitterness in her mouth at this change of topic. "You finally see the light."

"Aye, I was an arse." He planted his hands ―  _hand_  ― on the counter and leaned forward. "And a fool."

Still silent, she peered at him, all pleading and earnest and doe-eyed.

"There were so many things I should have done when I met you. For one, I should have given you the rose. Two, I should have  _invited_  you to return. And three...I should always have been a gentleman regarding you."

When he didn't continue, she prompted, "Is there a number four that follows?" With the trash swept away from all surfaces, dirty dishes plopped into the soapy sink, and leftovers stored away in the fridge and cupboards, her apartment didn't look half bad. Or maybe that was because the presence of Mr. Charisma here had brightened everything considerably.

He half-smiled at her. "Actually, yes." His good hand dove into his jeans pocket, searching until it withdrew a folded piece of paper. "This is for you."

Emma did a double-take when she noticed the amount scribbled on the check. "What...what the hell is this?" she stammered, shocked.

"Payment. For services rendered."

Her jaw dropped open, and she could feel blood rushing to her head as she processed this new information and the rather large sum outlined in bold print. "You're  _paying_  me...for all the months I've worked for you?"

"Aye." Nodding, he said quickly, "And that's not all." He bit his bottom lip, shifting from foot to foot in an antsy rhythm. "Would you...would you consider...working for me?"

She deadpanned. "As your personal slave, you mean?"

Killian snorted. "As my  _housekeeper_ , lass."

Hands on her hips, Emma narrowed her eyes and scrutinized him. "Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" His lips carried a cheeky grin. "Because I  _like_  you." Before she could muster up a decent retort, his brief display of arrogance disappeared, and he shrugged sadly as hidden weight made his shoulders sag. "I...I  _missed_  you, Emma. Missed you badly. My home...my life...both felt emptier without you than when I was alone."

Her heartbeat slowed down, a soft thrum in her ears.  _He missed her. She missed him. Maybe this was a sign...a sign that they shouldn't part again._  "You really know how to compliment a girl," she teased weakly, hiding her mirrored pain behind a chuckle or two. Then she gazed around her place, a place that had never felt like anything like a home. Or maybe she just didn't know what a home was, having never had one to begin with. "What are your terms?" she finally whispered, rubbing a dying petal of the rose between her fingers. It fell, softly landing on the dirty white tiles beneath.

He shook his head furiously. "No terms. You'll be paid on the dollar for every last bit of work. And...if you'd like..." His tone was shy and timid now, so unlike what she expected, that she tentatively peeked at him. "You could live with me, if you'd like. As you know, I have a spare room." He chuckled wryly. Then he was serious and brooding. "I have a lot of room ― too much room for one person."

"You're joking. Killian, your backyard is a jungle." He laughed at her sarcasm, lips pulled back to exhibit fine teeth that glimmered amid a breathtaking smile, and she joined in, adding her own amused smirk. Then the enormity of this surprise decision hit her hard.

She couldn't pay the rent on her apartment anymore ― not with one job, not even if she thriftily divided his generous sum into months and months. And she couldn't afford her expenses by working only at Granny's diner. He was offering her a way out while thinking that she had every option, that this was a matter of want, not a matter of  _need_. He didn't know what she knew ― that this was her one chance at survival. If she were a knight on a chessboard, this move would be called a  _double fork_. Or, in simple terms, killing two birds with one stone.  _God, she had always hated that saying..._

"Time." Emma cleared her throat, then clarified, nervously chewing on her lower lip. "I need some time...to think about it." She thought he would argue with her, but he didn't. Instead, his fingers brushed some errant hair from her forehead, continuing downward until they had outlined her entire face.

"Thank you," he whispered, pulling back. He gently put his cup of tea, now empty, in the sink, and rinsed it out. Then he made his way to the door, his only hand lodged deeply in his pocket.

Seeing him leave without a single demand, with hunched shoulders and bent head, looking as if he carried as much weight on his mind as she did every day, reminded her why she had been grieving these past months. "Killian," she called out, one hand outstretched instinctively. When he turned, she could feel the pain in his eyes. "Don't go."

The corners of his lips twitched hopefully. She took a deep breath and dared to cross the bridge he had created by coming to see her in the first place.

"Stay? And...cook dinner with me?"

There was that winning smile of his, growing wider by the minute. "Lass...I'd love to."

* * *

Their shared moments together were all he could think of that night when he was trying to fall asleep, surrounded by two lonely pillows, smothering sheets, and a hollow house that had echoed the cries of his nightmares for years past.

Years of being alone, of rejecting the world and all it offered because it had rejected him.

Until today. Until that very instant Emma had let him into hers.

He had masked his fascination, staring at her parted lips as they chopped vegetables together, his paring knife wheedling away the tough skin of cucumbers and squash for their salad while she diced tomatoes, peppers, green onions, and mozzarella cheese. During their short meal, he had been watching her head tilt down and up, curls bouncing and gaze flickering at she picked at the beans and croutons on her plate, fingers tearing at a bit of soft dinner roll and then dipping the pieces into humble salad dressing. Every little movement, however small, captured his attention. But most of all, he saw how she looked back at him. He was caught more than once with his fork raised halfway to his mouth, food forgotten because he was too occupied with the angelic creature before him, the woman who had changed  _everything_  without knowing it. It was a simple meal, but an amazing one.

_It was Emma's doing ― all of it._

He had wanted so badly to hate her for interrupting his routine, for spoiling his misery. Looking back on the fatal moment her fingertips touched that rose... He could see now why he had erupted into a mass of fury.

When she touched that rose...her face had lit up like a star. Bloody hell, it was seeing Milah again, cheeks blooming and pink, smiling at him with so much love after he had proposed to her in that damn rose garden. He could swear to God that the sudden jealousy and envy and bloody anger that had arose in him, boiling just under his skin, made his mind blank and his heart empty. This  _girl_ , alive and happy and joyful in that one second thanks to a bleeding  _flower_ , had driven him too far.

He had had an insane lust for revenge, for senselessly wanting her to suffer as he was suffering inside, because  _how dare this nobody be happy when he was tormented, how dare she dangle that glimpse of happiness right in front of his face like some bloody mockingbird, taunting him? He had lost his hand, his love, his future. And she dared to―_

She was an innocent. She was not his to break. She had no part in creating his pain. But he had caused her pain in return anyway, his selfishness and stupidity and recklessness disregarding her feelings, her person, and respect itself.  _5 months of being an utter moron, damn it_.

Oh, how he had refused to admit he was wrong, that he had acted rashly and petulantly. How damn stubborn and pig-headed he kept being, ignoring what was before him, clear as day.

And then...then, like a lamp in the dark, bringing him back the gift of sight, she had still opened his eyes, when he had wanted nothing more than to shove her help far away.  _An impediment_ , he had called her. _An intruder, an interfering wench._

_No. Her name was Kindness. Laughter. Compassion. Forgiveness._

_Emma Swan._

Despite all he had put her through, the lass had truly forgiven him.  _Had Milah forgiven him for not saving her in time?_

Tossing and turning, Killian felt a nagging urge, one that was all too familiar.  _A drink. He needed a drink._  Then his eyes snapped open in realization. Sadly, his collection of numbing beverages was long gone, decorating a trash heap somewhere, and he had vowed to himself that he would not amass another.

His hand fumbled over the bedside wall, searching vainly for the small light switch. But in his desperate haste, his arm flailed downward and his fingers slipped, landing in the depth of a small bowl, filled with something rather sticky.

 _Liquid_. His nose verified what kind.  _Sweet smelling rose_ ―

Inhaling deeply, he finally understood the scent pervading his house ― every sparkling, shiny corner of it. His appetite for rum forgotten, he smiled through the haze of mounting sorrow, forcing it to dissipate. Never mind that his eyes started to sting a bit, that his eyelids desperately blinked in response, that his cheeks were wet and he could taste salt on his tongue when he licked at his lips, dry and parched.

All he could hear was Emma tactfully telling him about her worst emergency room experience, her look of pride when he asked how she had learned how to cook so bloody well, her encouragement to visit Dr. Whale and check on his physical progress.

All he could see was her small grins, answering smiles, smirks, glowing eyes,  _gentle_  hands. The soft sway of her body when she walked to the kitchen. The bittersweet gracefulness of her mouth when she talked to him in between small, careful bites. Her heavenly voice to listen to.

All he could feel was how she was helping him to feel. How being around her felt.

 _Alive_.

For the first time in God only knew how many years, he felt alive again.

And for the first night since Milah had died, he went to sleep without being in the company of alcohol.

_Dreaming that perhaps Swan would say yes. Perhaps she would choose to come...and stay..._

_He could wait._

* * *

Morning time was not really Emma's thing. She wasn't a night owl ― God forbid ― but she wasn't an early bird either. She liked getting a good night's sleep and a sufficient breakfast at a decent morning hour. Which was why she was heading to Granny's diner right now, determined to carry out her plan.

Well, it wasn't much of a plan ― more like a request. A favor, really.  _Gosh, she was nervous ― and why?_ , she asked herself. This wasn't the end of the world; this was her, asking Granny for an extra shift.

"Hi! How can we help― Emma!" Ruby greeted, waving at her enthusiastically. "You're back!"

Emma couldn't help but grin back, shaking her head as the girl continued to swish and squeeze between close tables and customers, a few male prospects eyeing the end of her short skirt approvingly, stiff black heels clacking against the laminated tiles.  _She'd never learn._

Then Granny popped out from behind the counter, steaming mugs of coffee balanced precariously on one shaking tray. She was muttering to herself, wiping at some spillage with a wet paper towel. "Here," Emma grabbed the other end of the tray before it tipped downward, "let me help."

The elder woman smiled widely, finally acknowledging her presence. "Oh, hello, Emma ― thank you, dear ― what brings you here so early in the morning?"

Instead, Emma had already walked across the room, pointing questioningly at the crowded tables. On Granny's nod, she distributed the mugs to the people who were waving her over, careful not to drop any coffee on them or the floor.

"Whew." She adjusted her glasses on her nose, offering Emma a napkin when she returned. "Mornings always throw me into a whirlwind ― it's so goddamned busy in here, and that Ashley girl is late again!" Sighing, she rested her face in her hands. "You're lucky to be only here at night, I tell you ― the craziness that goes on around six o'clock..."

Hesitating, Emma fiddled with the edges of her shirt. "Um...there's something you need to know, Granny..."

The old woman was really staring at her now. "God, you're pregnant!"

Her face burned hotly. "No, no, no,  _no_  ― not  _that_." She chuckled nervously. "Nothing like that. See, I kind of sort of  _lost_  my morning job, and I was wondering..."

The pair of eyebrows above the spectacles rose up, then down. "You want to change shifts?"

She quickly shook her head. "It's not that. It's...it's..."

"Oh." Granny exhaled deeply, a hint of understanding in her shrewd eyes. "You want to be a full-timer here."

What other choice did she have? It was hard to find a brand new job in these times. And...and she had  _promised_  herself that she would only accept Killian's offer if she couldn't find something else.

She was frightened. Frightened to be at this next set of crossroads, forced to choose between two paths. Living with a stranger, with a man who was too close to her heart already... There had to be another way.

She didn't want to be dependent on someone else ever again. She didn't want to be this...this  _attached_  to Killian.

The reply she heard made her heart drop to the pit of her stomach and her feet feel like globs of mud. "I'm sorry, Emma...but the diner is barely paying for itself. I hired on Ashley, but the girl's taking care of her newborn baby right now ― and she has a good, working husband ― so I might be able to find her an alternate job. When she stops being here, it will be just be Ruby and me and the cook ― who also wants to quit, apparently, and go abroad. My granddaughter works for half-pay, so it will just be you I'll be keeping on at full wage ― and since you mentioned before that you have cooking skills, you might have to take on cooking as well during your shift. Ruby's here all day now, like I am, because I'm going to leave the diner to her when I retire myself ― so what I'm trying to say is..."

"You can't afford to pay me for another shift." Emma peered down at her shoes, embarrassed that she had inquired at all. What the hell was she going to do now?

A gentle hand lifted up her chin. "It's not that I don't want to, dear. I do want to. But I simply can't. I wish I could help ― you know that."

She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket, feeling dejected and hopeless. "It's ― it's okay, Granny." Mustering up a smile, Emma shrugged her shoulders. "I'll be okay."

Patting her on the shoulder sympathetically, the diner owner gave her an apologetic look before trudging off to help Ruby cater to the families who had ordered at least four meals per table.

Glancing one more time at the colorful atmosphere, Emma slipped out the door, and the wind outside blew against the group of bells tied to the door handle. Their incessant jingle chimed that her second path was gone. It didn't exist. This choice was no more.

One path was left, unless she could find a new job in less than two weeks.

So instead of walking back to her apartment, she peeked up at the sun, already making its descent, and judged in what direction she needed go next.

This wouldn't be an easy path, to be sure. As Robert Frost had said, per her latest English class assignment, it was "the road less taken." What he had failed to say in his enigmatic poem was that sometimes, it was the only road you had. That maybe it was a classic Hobson's choice, or a dilemma. Or maybe, in truth, life had no choices at all. She wasn't sure about any of it.

Except that she had to do what she  _had_  to do.

* * *

It took her only five hours to pack all of her belongings. She had almost no furniture, her bed and sofa both dilapidated old wrecks that she had found in a garage sale, and as for pots and pans and the usual assortment of accessories one was compelled to collect in the kitchen, the living room, and the bedroom, she was more than ready to just toss them into the dumpster.

But she didn't. Instead, she pulled out the few boxes she had saved from her previous moves, weathered but still strong, and took her time to sort everything she wanted to keep.

All in all, it wasn't much...but it was hers. Her personal and hygienic items, and the few articles of clothing she had, went by themselves into her one large suitcase.

By the time Killian Jones appeared on her doorstep, looking rugged and not doubt expecting a vicious haul of goods to drag down the stairs, she was sitting on the floor in the doorway, arms around her legs as she stared at the bottom of the neat stack of cardboard, surrounded by her baggage and not much else. The rest of the apartment was empty, as it had been the day she'd moved in. She could see the tips of his heavy-duty shoes, black and scuffed and pointing at her accusingly.

"This is  _all_  you have?" His tone was incredulous, and for some reason, it was rubbing into the despair she currently felt, this scene so utterly familiar that every time it occurred again was an added blow, another notch to a long line of cuts that marked her life.

When he squatted down on his haunches to catch her gaze, she couldn't take his scrutiny anymore. Launching herself onto her feet, she sidestepped around him and grabbed a box, keeping her distance. "It's not like you haven't seen it before," she muttered, stomping down the stairs with purpose.

The thud of his boots echoed until she reached the main corridor on the ground floor. He must have run down the entire staircase, because he stepped in front of her the moment her feet touched the cement. Panting a little, he outstretched his arms, palms extended. "It was a comment, lass ― not a judgment." When she continued to hold onto the box, stubbornly wishing he'd quit this sudden chevalier attitude of his, he gently wrestled it from her. "You know...you don't have to do this...if it's not what you want."

She knew what she  _should_  do. She should keep her mouth shut, behave herself, and get into the goddamn Jeep. The one parked right in front of her apartment building door, apparently ― with a moving trailer attached in back.

But since when has she done what was expected, what was  _normal_? She fell in love with a convicted thief, for God's sake.

Instead, the hesitation on her new  _employer's_  face was grinding into her own, gnawing at her frustration and anxiety and dismay. In one second, Emma felt her emotions explode. " _I_  don't have to do this?" she countered, gritting her teeth together hard as anger and fear swept through her system. "Maybe I should be asking why  _you_  are doing this ― this ― this  _charity_  act, when the only person you've given a shit about until now is yourself?" She could hear her own voice, scratchy and tremulous and rising in volume as her reluctance to step forward and accept her own decision crashed about her ears, threatening to smash her into pieces. Slowly, her eyes began to burn and she knew...

Oh, she  _knew_. The way the deepest part of her seemed to open, despair floating out the cracks. All the times she had cried as a little girl, desperately wanting her parents when foster care had screwed her over. Every time she had wallowed in her misery, finding no friends, no kindred spirits, not one soul who was understanding and kind and trustworthy. In the end, Neal had left her too, so it was blatantly, painfully clear.

She was a mistake. A reject. An  _unwanted_. That was why she had ended up in the boat she was in now ― and it was sinking fast. Soon, she would be drowning.

Looking up through blurry vision, Emma longed to leap back into her stupid, lonely apartment, where there was nothing but ghosts and regrets and most importantly,  _nobody_.  _At least when you're alone, you can be pathetic and weepy and depressed as much as you want._

Living with another person was going to  _kill_  her ― there was a reason why she never wanted a roommate and preferred to work harder to make up for more rent money. Especially having  _Killian Jones_  as her partner in solace ―  _a suicidal nervous wreck_ ―

What the  _hell_  had she been thinking?

"Shh...you'll be alright, lass ― don't cry. Everything will be...okay," Killian mumbled. "We'll work it out." His words sounded uncertain, but his arms weren't. They were wrapped around her, so tightly that she could barely breathe.

The box he had taken from her was discarded on the floor, and somehow, she had fallen into his embrace, with his fingers gently winding through her hair. When he rocked her back and forth, soothing her as one might a child, she realized that her hands were curled into his shirt, holding onto him as if she would break apart when he'd let go of her. The texture of cotton was under her fingertips, so close to the leather of his jacket...the scent of him, woodsy and briny and spicy... Of its own accord, her traitorous body snuggled into him, a sudden longing for comfort stifling her common sense. W _hy hadn't he fought back? What had made him not snap back at her?_

There was no way she could trust  _him_ , of all people. But then again, what did she have to lose?

She had no one. Neither did he.

In a twist of fate, she had been matched up with someone who couldn't be worse for her, a reminder of who and where and what she was, while on the other hand...

He was giving her the solution to half of her problems. And she was dreading it.

* * *


	4. Part 4 - Now We Are Two

_Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal._

_Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable._

_To love is to be vulnerable._

The Four Loves by C.S. Lewis

* * *

She barely recognized the spare bedroom. The walls had been repainted, now a clean shade of off-white, and the curtains had been replaced, stiff and starched and navy blue. It looked like the colorful rainbow rug had been washed; it was now stretched out brightly on shiny wood, and the glass panes of the solitary window in the corner were surely winking at her. And then there was a glass vase on the windowsill, filled with roses of every color.

Dragging her feet along the floor, head bowed, Emma sank into the mattress and hugged herself. Moving day was supposed to be exciting, thrilling, a fresh start. The moment she had entered Killian's house again, this time to stay on a more permanent basis, she had settled into the space given, placing her possessions on the walnut oak shelves and inside the simple wardrobe. There even was a vanity set with a mirror, painted pale yellow and embellished with tiny roses, winding over every curve until it looked like the dresser had been swallowed whole by flowers. The bed itself was queen-sized and decorated with soft Egyptian cotton sheets, alternating white and red.

All in all, the bedroom was beautiful, as if he had taken special time to make it so, just for her. To welcome her home.  _Did he really do all this because of her?_

"Do you like it?" He was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking at her with anticipation and concern.

Her fingers grasped at the yielding fabric beneath. "It's wonderful ― thank you," she whispered, wishing her voice didn't sound so... _dead_. So resigned to her fate, when this was a chance for new beginnings, not a condemnation.

"Hmm." His teeth were gnawing his lower lip, tugging at it. "Is there...anything else I can do?" When he tried to catch her gaze, she immediately turned away. Hurt radiated in her direction, as well as silent pleading.

She stood up, bracing her chest as if it would be torn asunder otherwise. For a second, as her feet made a path toward him, his face brightened considerably. Then, while she reached for the doorknob next to him, it collapsed.

_Damn it if she felt the least bit guilty._

"Well..." he tried, "I'll...I'll let you settle in, then?"

Still, Emma was mute. Words couldn't describe how every part of her was conflicted, relief and dread at war inside. It was good to have somewhere to stay, to have avoided a repeat of her past at the worst possible time. It was bad to be stuck in this house, owing a debt of gratitude to this man, unable to leave when she wanted because now she was under obligation to him. The more she pondered the turn of events that had led to this, the more furious she became, angry at her own foolishness and weakness and  _stupidity_.

So she said nothing. She couldn't even look at him as she pulled at the door, as he shuffled slowly out of the entrance to let it close shut. And as soon as there was a barrier of wood between them, everything churning within was too overwhelming. Nothing was right.

Knees buckling, back sliding against shiny finish, Emma covered her face with her hands and sank onto the floor.

_At least when she'd cried before, there was no one to hear it through the walls._

* * *

The first day she didn't come out, Killian attributed it to nerves. He knew all too well what it felt like to adjust to a new place, even if it was one you'd seen and visited before, so he tried not to sulk as he ate his supper alone, glancing much too often at the closed door that  _she_  was hidden behind. The entire move had been emotional, though the way Emma had melted into his arms as he had done his best to comfort her had given him some hope that she didn't hate him. That she wouldn't push him away.

Then two more days went by without a glimpse of her, and he started to worry.

"Swan?" he'd called through the door, anxious for her. On his bad arm, he tried to balance the old breakfast board he'd dug out from the pantry ― so dusty and soiled that he'd had to scour it and scrub it hard with baking soda ― while his only hand knocked insistently on wood. The hot chocolate in a mug ( _with cinnamon sprinkled on top ― he hadn't forgotten_ ), steaming platter of fruit-topped pancakes aside, wobbled when his grip lessened. Hopefully, the damn plank wouldn't crack under the weight.

First, getting the batter in order had been grievous, and he had almost mixed up the ingredients wrong and barely saved eggshells from dropping in with the melted butter. Then it had been hell to flip the damn griddle cakes with one hand, harder to also maintain the heat level of the stove, so after a few burns on his fingers and several missed attempts to transfer the result of his labors to a bloody plate, he was wishing desperately that she would like his effort to make a meal for her, that she would see that he  _did_  care and he  _did_  want her here and  _no, this wasn't some bloody act of mercy he was carrying out for the sake of it._

On realizing that there was answer, that silence was still ringing in his ears, he tried again. "Emma...come on, darling...after all, it's not healthy to skip―"

The door squeaked open, and her face peeked out. Killian's stomach soured when he noticed how red her eyes and nose, how her hair was in complete disarray, how her unkempt appearance could only mean one thing... "Hi," she stammered, clutching at the edge of wood like her life depended on it. "I...uh...I was going to tell you..." Then her gaze shifted to the contents of the tray. "What's that?"

Putting on a wide grin, he offered it to her, arms outstretched. "Um...just a little something I made...for breakfast. For you."  _God, he was no doubt blushing too, in addition to tripping over his tongue like some daft boy who fancied his first lass―_ "Thought it would help you to get on your feet again, a good early start..."

Just like that, her expression dropped and she was wary, eyeing him with trepidation. With  _distrust_. "Oh... _oh_. Yes, I totally forgot." Her smile was forced, and it cut at him all the more. "I apologize ― I should have known better." Swallowing hard, she mumbled, "I guess you can...deduct these past few days from my pay...shit, I got so caught up in things that I―"

"This doesn't have anything to do with the bloody housekeeping, lass," he said, exasperated beyond words. "I didn't make you breakfast and come here because I wanted to remind you to get to work and polish the silver." She pulled back. Immediately, he softened his irritated tone and sorted his thoughts. "I only wanted...to check that everything is alright." Again, he held out the ready meal to her. "Won't you join me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

He laughed aloud, then sobered when he saw how serious she was. She truly believed he would  _extort_  companionship from her? "I confess, I had hoped...you would  _like_  to. But yes...to answer your question...yes,  _of bloody course_ , you have a  _choice_." His breathing quickened. "I'd never force myself on you, nor do I want your pity, Emma. Though we've perchance become roommates, living separately is perfectly  _acceptable_ ," he hissed lowly.

Feeling terribly confused, he watched how she was taken aback by his response. It wasn't supposed to go like this. They were supposed to be friends now, friends with a purpose. Instead, they were at odds with each other  _again_ , she clearly afraid of his motives and he unable to convince her that his intentions were honorable.

Maybe he had hurt her too much to erase the past. Maybe there was no way possible to backtrack and begin again. After all, he'd been a heartless excuse for a man before. He had behaved abominably. Why should such a courageous, unselfish woman like Emma Swan think him anything but a horrid, crippled animal who had abused her?

She'd known his house for nearly a year. He'd known her presence for almost six months. Surely, amid all that time, was a touch of something good and decent out of all the contention, something that could bring both of them to a truce where they could peaceably be in the same room.

Eventually, their mutual inability to continue the conversation resulted in a heavy brickload of awkward silence, escalating so much that Killian wanted to slink back into the kitchen and wash dishes for hours instead of melting into a puddle of frustration as moments ticked by and his new house guest still refused to look him in the eye. Didn't she know she could never be his  _servant_ , that he always saw her as much, much more than that?

"I'm not good at this." He glanced at her, brow furrowing when she swallowed and then repeated her words, her voice surprisingly hoarse. "I'm not good at...being  _part_  of something. Maybe because...I've never learned how."

Bloody hell, how he wished his left hand were whole and still attached, that he could extend his right to her and help her forward by encouraging her to take that leap of faith with him. "Lass, I'm asking if you'll have breakfast with me, not go to the bloody moon," he managed with a chuckle, motioning toward the items on his arm a second time.

Then, finally, amid her wide-eyed fear was a small spark of a smile, curling her lips upward just a little. Her cheeks were flushed. Her stance was timid at best. But still, despite her apparent misgivings, she slowly emerged from her hide-out. When her hands tentatively took the board away from his tired arm, he felt his entire body sag from relief.

This arrangement would take time getting used to for both of them. A lot of  _time_. But here was the start.

As she sat across from him, chewing on bites of pancakes and mulling over sips of cocoa, looking every bit the thoughtful Lost Girl he knew, he let himself relax. They had all the time in the world to become better acquainted. There was no rush.

But that didn't stop him from looking forward to it.

* * *

He really didn't understand her dilemma, did he?

The rest of the week was, literally, hell. The hurt look on his face that she saw every time she couldn't bring herself to feel comfortable around him, always on pins and needles and tiptoeing her way about the rooms. The awkwardness of having to sit down at the same table for each meal and stare at each other all the time, neither wanting to keep eye contact for more than a few seconds. The imposition of sharing the same bathroom and never being sure if she was creating problems for his morning routine by spending more time to prepare for school and work, if she was being a bother. The entire house was designed to be tête-à-tête for  _everything_ , and she didn't know how to handle such...such...

_Intimacy. Such close quarters, where it was impossible to be out of sight and out of mind, as the saying went._

_How difficult it was for her to adjust to living with another person in the same space ― how much she had to second-guess herself, anxious that she didn't do something wrong or commit a cardinal sin against his unwritten household rules through one of her habits._

The worst part was the guilt, the fact she was keeping from him...that she didn't have anywhere else to go. That she had agreed to this arrangement, knowing how precarious it was, how all was balanced on the tip of Killian's word, like a modern sword of Damocles hanging over her head, always looming threatening. He could throw her out anytime he wished, for any reason. And then where would she be?

_Out on the streets. Like...like she had been before..._

Emma blinked quickly, a hidden fragment within her beginning to ache. God, those memories were the unspeakable. The moment they would arise, like a tsunami wanting to drown her, she would squash them flat, willing them to disappear. But they didn't. It was just wishful thinking on her part, the foolish hope that the bad in her life would simply go away because she imagined it could.

No, all of that was never leaving her. The terrible, the horrible, and the repugnant were here to stay, standing guard and ready to take whatever happiness she gleaned and toss it into the trash.

Of course...it was hurting Killian ― how she pulled and pulled away, unable to accept the fact that his house was now her abode as well, that he was not just her new boss but also her companion, that she should stop rejecting his kindness and his efforts to please her because she didn't know how to cope with everything about this that was wrong.

She didn't want to rely on him. After Neal, there was not even a tiny spark of trust left in her. It even didn't matter that she liked Killian. It didn't matter that he was doing his best to accommodate her, that it was obvious this new  _roommate_  business was being as hard on him as it was on her.

She just did not believe in herself. She never had. How then could she even  _start_  to believe in someone else?

Tying her hair up with an old scarf, Emma whipped out the feather duster and proceeded to sweep away dust gathering on the furniture. Here and there, she polished the varnished wood with a soft cloth.

The morning had been quite eventful, leaving her with a stack of new homework assignments and class notes to go over ― not to mention that she was due for her evening shift at Granny's today. Unfortunately for her, she'd already heard from Ruby in advance that those daily shifts were soon to become tri-weekly. Damn, damn,  _damn_.

"Emma."

She nearly jumped out of her skin, heart hammering in her chest. "God, you scared me!"

Looking sheepish, Killian stared down at his feet, which were only covered in thick, dark socks. "Apologies, lass. I was only meaning to ask―"

"Dinner will be ready by six o'clock, right after I finish cleaning," she blurted out, wringing her hands around the duster's wooden handle.

His smile was too sad. "I actually wanted to ask if you needed any  _help_."

" _Oh_." Her face was in flames. She could only stare at the white sweater he was wearing, focusing in on the pattern of the threads. It was a bit too big for him, and the end of the sleeves were unraveling, but in contrast to his dark jeans and tousled hair, it was a good match. He had good taste in clothes, like he did in décor and flowers. The more she thought of him, the more she was confused.

"But I'm...I'm supposed to..." She shook her head. "This is  _my_   _job_."

"I didn't welcome you into my house to be my personal servant, Swan," he muttered, scratching at the back of his ear. "I want you to feel at home ― that this can be your  _home_."

Sudden pain in her chest radiated until it had spread to her throat, choking her. She couldn't breathe. Underneath her eyelashes were unwanted tears, threatening to spill. "Didn't you know, Jones? Orphans...they don't have homes. And they don't ever get them either."

"Emma...don't..." He was so close to her, and his hand was trembling, as if he wanted to extend it to her. "I know you don't want to trust me...and I don't blame you in the slightest...but I'd be honored, if you gave me a chance to  _earn_  your trust. I'll do everything in my power to be worthy of it."

He talked so differently, as if he had dropped out of another time, where men spoke to women with respect. Or at least, Emma mused, with false respect. Nowadays, you couldn't get a person to even try. "It's not that simple..."

"No, it's not ― it never is. It's a leap of faith, what I'm asking." He hung his head. "Love, you've seen me at my worst, all broken into bloody bits. I've been a selfish bastard. I don't deserve  _anything_  from you, after how I've treated you. But if I truly have your forgiveness..."

"You do."

"Then...will you? Will you give me a chance?" His voice wavered, gruff from such raw words.

To her, he looked sincere. Completely, utterly sincere. But that was the problem. Everyone also  _looked_  like they had good intentions ― it was the first rule of pretense, after all: be convincing, lead you in...then drop you flat. It had been Neal's strategy ― heck, she  _still_  didn't understand why he had decided to leave her heart a bloodied wreck. Had she not been loving enough? Desirable enough? Good enough?

Now she would never know.

The pieces of her that remained were so conflicted,  _tormented_  by Killian's request. It was one thing to ask her to trust, to repair her doubts. Somehow, no one ever offered a way to mend either after they'd both been broken.

Emma clung to the duster like her life depended on it.  _Which, in a manner of speaking, it did._ She didn't have any excuses left. So, perhaps, it was best to go with the truth. "What do you want me to say?" she finally answered, unable to meet his stare.

"I only want―"

"For me to  _trust_  you. Right." She swallowed. "For me to reveal myself, put my cards out on the table...and then what? What happens when I fall? What do I do when the spell is shattered and then I'm back to where I started?" She shook her head. "Maybe it's better things stay as they are. Separate. Simple. It's safer that way."

His eyes narrowed, then softened. "You're afraid to trust me," he whispered. "It's why you keep pushing me away."

"Well, it's hard  _not_  to do, seeing as the last person I lived with framed me for his  _crime_ and abandoned me when I needed him. I went through so much damn  _shit_  and  _pain_ and _hell_  because I gave him my trust and he just  _crushed_  it. Why should I take that risk again, Killian?" Her eyelids closed, the wetness behind them hard to quell. "It's why I have no friends, why I sit in crowds of people in my classes and I'm still alone. It's why it's hard for me to find work in the usual places, knowing I'm so different. When everyone is treating you like trash, how do you believe in yourself? How do you believe in someone else?"

"You see outside yourself. You see that there are others who feel the same pain. Others exactly like you." Sighing, he gave her a sad smile, running his hand through his hair. "It's what brought us to this point. It's why we're standing here. It's why you saved me."

"But I've never mattered. I'm not―"

"Don't. Don't belittle yourself. You are  _good_. See that, Emma. Like you saw it in me." He reached behind him. In his hand was an envelope, blank but sealed. He extended it to her. "For you."

"What is it?" Emma crossed her arms over her chest, wary.

"A sign of faith," he whispered, winking at her, the corners of his lips crinkling. "My sign of faith in you."

"And..." Slowly, she took it, cradling it as if it were fragile. She licked at her lips. "And what do you expect in return?"

Killian shook his head. "Nothing. I only ask that you read it. Don't be too hard on me, now." His expression became serious, from light to dark. "Just remember that whatever you decide, I'll support it."

* * *

He was curled up on the couch.

Sitting. And sitting. Nothing but sitting.

Had he really fallen into this? That he didn't know what to do with his day, besides drinking himself into a stupor?

Killian sighed deeply. He truly missed the times when he knew himself, not this sorry excuse for a man that he'd become.

The keys jangled in the lock, and the front door opened.

Emma padded in quietly, slipping off her shoes by the clothes rack. Then she turned to him, looking crestfallen. But there was...something. He squinted at her. She was sad, yes...but there was definitely something more there. A light, in her eyes...in the way she was staring at him...

"Hey..." she greeted weakly. "I, um...I read it. The letter?" There was the beginnings of a smile there, small and shy.

He was so surprised, he couldn't find the right words to say. "You...did?"

"Yes." She exhaled slowly. "Could I...could I sit down? We really need to talk."


	5. Part 5 - An End to Wandering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many thanks to **Lifeinthewoods** for her patience, advice, and words of wisdom regarding this story and my writing.

" _Hey Emma." Ruby gave her a half-hearted wave from her corner of the diner. She was mopping the floor with a vengeance, soapy water splashing everywhere. "How are things?"_

_Settling herself on one of the stools by the counter, Emma placed her purse on top of the smooth surface and rested her chin on the soft leather. The letter Killian had given her was tucked right beneath, still unopened. "My new living arrangements are...trying my patience."_

_She raised a brow, scrubbing at a particularly dark spot under one table. "Nosy roommate?"_

_Emma shook her head frantically, thinking of Killian's recent kindness. Nothing could be further from the truth. "If anything, I'm a bother to him."_

" _Him?" A wolfish smile lit up Ruby's face. "You found a man?"_

_The blush creeping up her neck refused to be dispelled. "Not exactly. We're not involved. He...I...it's a long story."_

_As quickly as she could, Emma related the short version of how she discovered his house, the attraction of the roses, and the lonely man hiding within both. It was all she could do to hold back tears when she remembered how their first meeting had hurt, how his attempt at suicide had broken her down. How his efforts to find her and mend that pain brought the fragrant, undefinable hope of the roses back into her life, resembling every wish she ever had._

_Ruby let out a low whistle. "Wow, Emma. Just...wow. This guy sounds like he's serious ― and a heartbreaker. Are you sure living with him in the same space is a good idea?"_

" _What?" Her cheeks grew redder, if possible. "No...no, it's not like that at all. We're...we're friends. I...I need this, Ruby. And he needs me."_

_Her friend's voice was suddenly quiet and unusually gentle. "Then what's bugging you?"_

_Emma patted her purse. "He has a lot of secrets. And baggage."_

_The girl snorted. "Uh, yeah, I guessed as much from what you told me. He was ― is ― an alcoholic, suicidal―"_

" _Yes, but he's lost so much. I'm not defending his actions. But I've forgiven him. I've forgiven him everything."_

" _So if you'd made peace, what's wrong now?"_

_She squirmed in her seat. "I haven't lived with anyone in a while. I don't know how. Every time he reaches out, I pull away. It's hurting both of us, but I can't make myself stop."_

_Ruby bit down on her lower lip, chewing on it absently. "If you believe he's going to put you in danger―"_

" _No. He wouldn't. He has problems, yes. But he's a good guy ― I believe in that. He came back for me."_

_Ruby stopped mopping and gave her a prolonged stare. "Well, Emma, here's my advice ― and if you'd ask Granny, I suck at giving advice, so no guarantees," she sighed. "You can either do what your instincts are telling you ― to pack up and run._

" _Or you can take a chance, and stay."_

* * *

"You think that once you remove what's causing the pain, the wound will stop hurting. He promised me the thing I wanted most,  _a home,_ and then he just took that away. No good-byes, no apologies." Emma sniffled, not daring to look Killian's way. The last thing she wanted was his pity. "And stupid me, how could I have been so surprised? No one has wanted me since I was  _born_."

The faucet must be leaking, because the constant  _drip, drip, drip_  of water hitting the sink every other second filled the kitchen with its set rhythm. And in the midst of the tears wanting to spill out onto the smooth leather surface of the sofa, she reminded herself that it was okay.  _It's okay, Emma. This is home now. It's your house too. You live here. It's okay to let the tears come._

Choking on a half-laugh, she bitterly wiped off the wetness under her eyes. "But you know what stung the most? Not only I went to prison for Neal's crimes, but I had to carry his  _baby_. When I was pregnant in that cell, all I could think about was how alone I was. All I could see was a future I didn't want. A lifetime of being lonely ― of wondering what the hell is wrong with me, that I can't get a damn break. First foster care, then him."

His fingers crawled slowly up her arm, inching around the nape of her neck until he was pulling her into his embrace. She let him. Her chest was hurting so much, from the sobs she was desperately trying to hold in, that she couldn't stand it anymore.

"Emma... You are bloody  _brilliant_ , lass. You are exceptional. You deserve every happiness. Please don't give up. Don't toss out your hopes."

"What's the point?" she whispered into his shirt, cushioning her cheek in the feel of him. How could she take comfort in his words when that's all they were?  _Words_. "It hurts too much, Killian.  _It hurts_. What's the point of going on?"

"Because you are too precious to lose. Neal was an arse to let you go." He buried his nose in her hair. "I promise you that if I ever cross paths with the bloody wanker, I'll punch his bleeding lights out."

A chuckle left her lips, dry and taut. It pained her to laugh, but on the other hand, it felt rather good. As if her body was in denial but at the same time, in compliance. She ached to let his words sink into her, wash over her ― but that was the catch, wasn't it? That his faith in her was too good to be true.  _And if something is too good to be true, it usually is. Hadn't she lived that truism forever and a day?_

"What happened? To your baby?"

The part of his shirt she was nuzzling was wet. Emma could hear her own voice, tearing and breaking and stumbling. It was so hard to let go and trust him ― painful, because there was no telling if she would live to regret this or not.

"He...he died." She choked down a trickle of water, salty and warm. In her mind's eye, the blood was still there, on the floor, at the end of the hospital bed. "He was stillborn. I never even got to see his eyes. He never cried, never moved in my arms.  _He was dead,_ " she whispered. "I named him Henry. I buried him."

"It wasn't your fault," he said firmly, rocking her. "You're not to blame for this, Emma."

"But I  _failed_ , Killian," she cried, "I failed even to have a child who was healthy and  _alive_. I failed Henry. I failed myself."

Those were the last audible words she could get out to him before she really, truly crumbled.

His arms were hard and soft as they held her, and his breath was fanning her neck as quietly as a whisper. The house was still silent, echoing her thoughts. When would the pain end? When would she stop reminding herself of all the ways she had screwed up her life?

"Then I failed too." His voice broke. "Emma, I've failed everyone I loved."

She whimpered into his sweater. "Milah?"

"Aye, her. And...Liam."

"Your brother." Emma sniffled. "How did they die?"

"Quite grim tales, the both of them. We had an accident on our ship ― the  _Jewel of the Realm_ , we nicknamed her. One of the boilers burst and started a fire below deck. Liam was the heroic one, just had to do the bloody right thing and try to save everyone. We got separated..."

He coughed, and his tone thickened. "The last thing I heard were his screams when a wall of fire divided us and the only way out for me was to jump overboard. All the Navy could do was issue me an apology, a bloody Medal of Honor, and ashes in an urn. All that, in exchange for my brother, the true hero, lying at the bottom of the sea. He was the captain ― always thinking of others first, never of himself. A bloody slap in the face, when what I wanted back was  _him_ , stubborn arse that he was. That same day, I asked to be discharged from my post as lieutenant."

His embrace grew tighter, and his body began to shake.

"Once, I loved sailing," he rasped, "but now, all it does is make me relive Liam's death. I wasn't there for him when I should have been. I should have saved him."

Was there anything she could say to soothe that loss? His brother's death had clearly been an accident, but he was blaming himself, even though it wasn't his fault. "You did the best you could," she finally whispered. "No one could have done more than you did."

There was no sign of agreement on his part. His hurt was radiating too much and blinding him to the truth.

Working up her courage, Emma timidly asked, "Is that...how you lost your hand? In the fire?"

"Aye." He freed his hand to wipe at his eyes. "I burned it badly, trying to reach for him. The doctors said it couldn't be saved and they had to amputate what was left. I woke up without it, went into a bloody panic. I must have used up the hospital's entire bank of sedatives, with the way I carried on. Some days, I can bear to look at the damn thing. On others, I wish my entire arm had been cut off."

Her fingers sought for the hidden stump, not letting go of it even when he tried to pull it away.

"You're not disgusted by it?" He sounded revolted.

A sad smile crossed her lips. Did he think that of her? That she judged by appearances only? "I like to see people for what they are, not what they have."

He let out a ragged sigh. "You're one of the few who do, lass."

"Like Milah."

"A bold lass who gave me a second chance at life. She didn't care that I was lacking a hand; she wanted Killian Jones, invalid or not. I didn't have much to offer a woman like her ― fierce, determined like a lion, but she still chose to love me. She was going to marry me, to fight for custody of her son. But her husband didn't wait for that. He drove right at us in a head-on collision, in broad fucking daylight. The demon of man escaped unscathed. She bled out in minutes on the seat next to me, and like with Liam, I was helpless, pinned down and unable to move."

Memories of her time in foster care came back to her. The endless nights, worrying about the next day. The uncertainty that her foster parents meant a word they said to her, about anything. The abuse she'd witnessed and experienced.

She had always been helpless, from the very start. It was hard to believe in choices when circumstances didn't let you have any.

He lifted his head, staring around at the living room. "This was to be our house. I bought it for her. Roses were her favorite flower. I planted them myself. When she saw what I'd done with the place, she called it her paradise on earth."

Her eyelids stung. "I shouldn't have touched them. I shouldn't have..." she swallowed hard, "caused you so much trouble."

"No, Swan." He shook her gently. " _You_  are the  _best_  bloody thing that's come my way in years.  _Years_ , darling. It means so much to me that you are here, by my side. I bless the day you found my home and decided to return to it. I treasure the day I met you."

She let out a weak laugh. "We really need to stop punishing ourselves for how we've hurt each other. There are only so many apologies my stomach can digest."

His chuckles were muffled by her hair. "Too true, love."

Emma finally lifted her head up to look up at him. She knew he could see the trails of tears on her cheeks. But his own eyes were reddened, deep blue clouded over by the sadness they shared.

There was no shame in this. Together, they had created a bridge of understanding. In this moment, she had never felt as close to anyone as she did to him. He was...

"Do you think...we can start over?"

His lips formed a smile. "Over?"

She cleared her throat, blushing even as she stared into that powerful gaze. "I want to be friends with you. No more closing the door, no more periods of silence. I want us to be friends."

Killian's hand twitched as it paused before her face. Then his warm palm slid over heated skin to frame her cheek, his thumb wiping off wetness, his fingertips running over her temple. It was the sweetest caress she had ever received.

When his forehead rested against hers, they sighed at the same time, as if their senses had been waiting indefinitely for this soothing, enveloping touch.

"It would be an honor, to be your friend." His eyelids closed, and he licked at his lips, whispering, "I'm here to stay, Emma. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here for you, if you want me to be."

* * *

It was with a lighter heart and mind that Emma fell asleep that night, burrowed in the covers of her new bed. She was still marveling over how he had known what décor would please her, which colors would be relaxing. As were his words and his actions― he had carved out a path for them to walk along, a new path as friends, and he hadn't even realized how perfectly he had done it.

She searched for sleep with the letter ― his letter ― clutched tightly to her chest.

_Once upon a time, there was lass who was curious and stubborn. One day, she stumbled upon a house surrounded by roses. The roses belonged to the beast who dwelt inside the house...a beaten, broken man, clinging to old memories of a dead brother and a lost sweetheart. He shut out the world because he was intent on not living any longer. There was nothing to live for._

_Then he saw this lass. A beautiful, sad-looking, golden girl, and she loved his roses. He watched her. He watched how she stared at them, how she ached to touch them, to smell them, to feel them. It reminded him of someone he once loved, a woman named Milah._

_The thorns of pain in his heart began to drive in deeper, and he began to grow angry again. The lass was opening his wounds by daring to claim the one thing he had left. In his jealousy and his rage, he selfishly drove her away, hoping that if he punished her and made her feel his hatred, she would leave. But she didn't. She was strong and up to the challenge, meeting him blow for blow, never turning away. There were times when he pushed too hard and hoped that would be enough to send her out the door, never to return. She didn't break. Instead, she swept the clutter out of his yard and his life._

_She didn't know it, but he saw how hard she tried. Despite himself, respect for her took bloom and grew. The hate he thought he held toward her vanished as if it had never existed. Perhaps it never had, and was of his own imagining. He could no longer deny that she was part of his life, the life he'd tried to destroy with drink and shaded windows to block out the light. And even more...he wanted to learn about this brave woman. Her past, what had brought her to him. Why she always had such sorrow in her gaze._

_The orders he left her became notes. The notes changed into letters. The distance between them lessened into a smaller gap. And for a time, the beast left his fury behind, content in the new friendship of the lass._

_But the day came. That terrible day when everyone he loved ― the last hope he had for happiness ― had been ripped from him._

_He drank himself into a stupor. He drank and drank until even his bones felt numb. He drank so he would forget himself, even his own name. He wanted to end the pain completely._

_The moment he woke up in that hospital bed, he knew only one person would have cared enough to save him. And he hated her for it, for caring for someone unworthy like him, for rescuing him from death. He lashed out with all of the bitterness he had been harboring for so many years, wanting to be reunited with the dead and the past, wanting his full body and spirit back._

_She saw beyond his injuries and the shattered pieces that formed his soul. But he still wounded her with his words, determined to turn his hurt onto someone else._

_When she didn't come back, he began to worry. His worry was greater than his self-pity and the misery he had wallowed in, stuck in that dingy hospital room. The instant he was back in an empty house, he knew how wrong he had been._

_He set out to find her._

_When he did, it was as if the dead roses in his garden had blossomed in the middle of winter, bringing the warmth of the sun back._

_A beast can't be a beauty. He is covered in ugliness ― true ugliness, when the deadened heart within is corrupted and horrid and deformed from scars and hate and cruelty. It is why he looked upon the loveliness of the roses, desiring to be something he cannot._

_On the day the lass returned, he realized that he had been clinging to the thorns more than the roses themselves. They protected him from ever feeling anything other than pain. He had forgotten what happiness felt like. He had forgotten what had made him who he really was inside._

_The lass loved the roses because they brought her joy._

_The beast who hated and didn't want to love, finally saw the truth: it wasn't the roses that he wanted to look at anymore. It wasn't bushes of pretty flowers that made him hope again._

_He wanted to be near her. The woman with true beauty, who had revived the man within and given him the will to love again. He had been lost in a maze of revenge and regret, consumed by both, unable to stop hurting._

_Then, without a thought for herself, she rescued his heart from the thorns._


	6. Part 6 - Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Apologies for the long wait. I've finally decided that there's too much story left to cram into one chapter, so there is one more chapter to come after this one.

There was no magic to mend things overnight.

Lying flat in bed at sunrise, staring at the blank ceiling, Emma recalled her high school counselor and his dry voice. His bored tone, the one he used to recite nonsense like "the little steps you take in the right direction get you to your destination." She would often parade into his office, sporting a bloodied lip or bruised cheek courtesy of the classroom bullies. He would lecture her on fairness, on being the better person and not punching back ― all those stupid truisms about treating others the way you wanted to be treated.

His dull sigh told her he couldn't care less about her impassioned replies. Then again, no one did. Scores of foster homes, bullies at school, the mean crowd with its casual indifference.

Even if you made your mark on the world, that didn't mean there would be someone who gave a damn. Loneliness was hard to kill.

However, small changes did count. She had picked up so many bad habits during her time with Neal that undoing them was a pain in the ass. But she had no choice. It wasn't like there were many people jumping forward to hire her after her stay in jail. She went from one minimum wage job to another, never knowing how long at-will employment lasted. The endless days and nights, always full of worries and tears, were the perfect opportunity for life to crush her even more firmly underneath its steel heel.

 _Live and learn_. God, she had _eaten_ that saying for years.

Then Killian stepped in, with a deeper hatred for his own existence than she had ever had for hers. His letter, crafted with so many agonized feelings, spoke volumes. Despite her instincts and her fears, she chose to stay because emotionally, it felt right for once. Logic had never been her friend anyway.

The smell of fried eggs and cinnamon and toast swirled through the air like a fume of temptation, creeping under her door until the combined scents tickled her nose into action.

Grinning, she sprang from her room ― _her very own room_ ― and raced into the bathroom, hurrying with her usual toiletries so she could be in the kitchen as soon as possible. She tried her best not to smile at her reflection in the mirror or congratulate herself on taking a step forward in friendship. It didn't work. Her lips curved upward despite self-reprimand.

And on entering the small cooking space, his beaming face was all she could see.

"'Morning, Swan. I seem to recall your preference for scrambled eggs over hard-boiled, but I wasn't sure, so I made both." Spatula in hand, an old t-shirt wrapped around his waist ( _the ultimate makeshift apron_ ), he ducked his head and quickly continued, "Then there was the matter of oatmeal ― we're out of apples, so I had to make pancakes instead, but there isn't any syrup. I dug out an old blackberry jam from the cupboard―"

His voice became a whisper, washed out by the echo of one thought in her mind.

_For once, here was someone who wasn't lying to her. For once, here was a person who was offering a home he wouldn't take away. He would never just leave her. He was different._

She didn't care if he was covered in flour and egg splatters, the pan was still sizzling on the stove, or he smelled like fried food. Before she could stop herself, she strode up to him and flung her arms around him in a fierce hug.

The spatula bounced off the floor.

He was hugging her back just as tightly, burying his face in the crook of her neck, whispering her name. They must have stood there like that for minutes on end, disregarding time.

But despite her tendency to hold off, to not get close, she didn't mind their proximity at all. It was reassurance that this moment was real and that something was changing ― not tomorrow, or next month, or a year from now ― right this minute, this very second.

There had been too much pain and loneliness in both their lives, always leaving them alone and hurting.

Now, they would never have to feel like that again.

* * *

Post-breakfast, they shared kitchen duty: he washed while she dried, and leftover pancakes were put in the freezer for later. Emma took a mop to the floor, cleaned any evidence of food, and then...

Well, the house was still pretty spotless. Even if she was going to be his housekeeper, there wasn't that much to do _all_ the time. Usual chores would take her a couple of hours a week, and Killian was a tidy housemate.

Padding into the living room, she stopped at the sight of the man himself, slumped against the couch with his head in his hand. Far from his cheerful attitude this morning, he looked devastated.

Slowly, she sat down next to him, unsure of what to say. She didn't want to trigger anything or make him feel worse.

"You're upset." That didn't sound diplomatic. She cleared her throat. "You seem upset. Would you like to tell me what's wrong?"

He refused to look up at her. "I don't want you to pity me."

As if they didn't feel sorry for themselves enough. "I think that we're past that point now. You can tell me anything, and I will understand."

His gaze was wild and desperate when he choked out, "I don't want to start drinking again."

 _Oh, that._ She blushed.

"Emma, I appreciate all you've done for me, I really do. But I've been living inside myself for years." His throat bobbed. "I am just worrying... You have obligations beyond this house, but I'm stuck here. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do; I'm practically an invalid. All those hundreds of days before you stopped in front of the roses, I spent my mornings, afternoons, and nights wallowing in misery, reliving every bad memory I ever made, surviving off my pension without moving my arse. I just want to prove myself to you, that I'm not the monster I was when we met. But if I start drinking again..."

"You'll go back into that darkness." Emma sighed. "Is this about my schedule? Because I'm only going to be at school in the late mornings and early afternoons, and then my work at the diner is only three nights a week. The rest of the time, I'll be here."

Killian huffed, growling, "I don't need a damn babysitter either."

"Then it's a good thing that I threw all your liquor to the garbage," she snapped back.

"Aye, I noticed." His eyes softened. "I'm truly touched you care."

"I'm not going to stop, if that's something else worrying you." The admittance registered in her mind a second after it left her mouth. To draw attention away from that, she weakly added, "You're not upset about that? That I dumped your booze?"

"No, you had my best interests at heart. And I'm guessing...you didn't think I had the willpower to do it on my own," he finished, his lilting voice sad and subdued.

She knew better than anyone how close you can get to breaking apart completely. Not to mention that she had witnessed his defeat firsthand. "I don't blame you. It's hard to keep going when you feel you have nothing to live for." Tentatively, she reached out and rubbed his shoulder. "We'll work it all out ― it will only be several hours a day, at most. And only weekdays."

He searched her eyes before asking, "You're sure it's alright? I don't want you to be burdened―"

"Burdened? Killian, I live here. I have no plans to leave." His grin matched hers instantly. "As your official housekeeper, I will find you a project to work on."

His smile widened. "What kind of project?"

* * *

"Now open your mouth widely for me. No, don't stick out your tongue ― please put that back in, Mr. Jones."

Emma covered her mouth to stifle a chuckle. Killian seemed determined to give Dr. Whale a hard time with this checkup, and it was showing. The doctor looked completely exasperated by his reluctant patient. When his back was turned toward the blood pressure machine, Killian glanced at her and winked, grinning from ear to ear.

Once all vitals had been jotted down, Dr. Whale finally focused his attention back on them. "So the good news is that your organs are recovering from your brief stint with death." He tapped certain figures on the medical chart with his pen. "From what I can see from your blood work, your liver is safe ― for now. But I don't think I need to emphasize how close you were to destroying it, do I, Mr. Jones?"

"Killian will do as a moniker, _Doc_ ," he gritted out, "and aye, I understand what happened. I assure you, I am doing my best to assure nothing like that ever occurs again."

"Alright, _Killian_ , that's good to hear." Dr. Whale was scrutinizing him closely. "Have you decided to talk to an addiction counselor, like I suggested?"

Killian stared ahead at the wall. "I don't believe that is necessary."

"You said you want to change. How are you supposed to do that by yourself? Just stop drinking?"

"Exactly."

The doctor scoffed. "Killian... I'm sorry, but it doesn't work that way. You don't drag yourself out of an addiction alone like you would with any other bad habit. It's not like chewing your nails and then getting yourself to stop. You need help to withstand the craving for something that can kill you, and that doesn't happen overnight. Please explain to me your plan for making this work on a long-term basis."

Killian clenched his jaw. "I'm not speaking to another bloody shrink, _Doctor_." His voice was angry. "I spoke to a therapist for a year after my brother died, and I'm not wasting my time a second time by listening to another tell me the same idiotic crap."

"What about Alcoholics Anonymous?"

"Of all the ridiculous shite―"

"Look, Dr. Whale." She flashed him her most patient smile. "I think what Killian is trying to say is that...he has talked about his drinking problem with other people, and it hasn't worked so far. Maybe we could try a different approach?"

Sighing, he riffled through the papers on the chart. "The only other thing I could suggest, besides a rehabilitation center, is you seeing Dr. Archie Hopper together, as a couple. He's a licensed family therapist and right in this hospital. As far as I'm concerned, he's the best we've got. I've visited him myself. Even doctors need therapy."

"But we don't want therapy." She clasped her hands in her lap. This was not the moment to say that they were not, and never have been, a _couple_. "I've been to therapy as well, in the past, and... I'd really not repeat the experience."

Leaning back in his chair, the doctor cocked his head. "Dr. Hopper's a good listener. I'm not promising it will work out, but I definitely recommend you try it. I've seen many addicts go through the ER in this hospital, Emma, and the majority of them were alone, with no one to help them through rehab or therapy. Since I'm guessing Killian here doesn't want to enter a rehab center, the most logical solution is finding out the source of the problem, as privately and quietly as possible, in a manner that makes you feel comfortable and safe. This way, you don't have to shoulder the burden alone ― either of you."

Killian's hand covered hers gently, giving them a light squeeze. "I'm not saying I agree. But if she wants to try it, I will do it. For her."

Dr. Whale handed each of them two business cards. One was for Archie Hopper, licensed therapist. The other was for Whale himself, general physician. "Think about it, okay? You don't have to decide today. If you ever need to talk to me or schedule a visit, just give me a call. We are here to help, in whatever way we can."

* * *

"Liam used to say, 'The best cure for a craving is hard work. That drives your appetite away.'" Killian wiped his hand on his jeans, then grabbed the next bag of groceries from the back of his Jeep. "Bloody git would stand there and say that to me when I didn't want to do my chores, working his way through a carton of ice cream."

Emma smiled to herself as she hefted the last bag in her arms. "Sounds like you two were close."

"Aye, we were — we were all each other had, really. Mother died when I was a babe, Father took off like a shot when I was about eight or so. Liam was everything to me — parent, brother, best friend. When I graduated from secondary school, I joined the Navy so we could stay together."

Somehow, he managed to balance the bag on one arm and pull out his keys from his jeans pocket, opening the front door. Muscles aching, she hurried inside and dumped the groceries on the kitchen counter.

"I ended up in the States by chance. I met Milah in a bar, when I was brooding over my sorrows with a glass of rum. She lifted my spirits, and...you know the rest. My history isn't a romantic one."

"Neither is mine," she sighed. At least life had improved a little since then. When Killian found out that she walked every day to campus because she couldn't afford bus fare (and she definitely couldn't afford a car), he began to drive her there. Even as she closed the door and headed in the direction of the right building, she could feel his eyes on her back, guarding her. After she told him about what happened at work with Walsh, he vowed — _yes, he used the word "vow"_ — that she would never be treated like that again.

He might not be willing to fight for himself, but he was willing to fight for her.

There really was a first time for everything, including having a friend who would defend her.

The crackle of paper bags brought her back to the kitchen — _their_ kitchen. Killian was unpacking the items they bought and separating them into pantry or refrigerator foods. She smiled at how he organized everything. Grocery shopping had been a pain by herself, but Killian had made it an adventure. Especially the part where they argued for 15 minutes about who was going to pay. She had wanted to split the total, but he outmaneuvered her to the point where she quit out of exasperation. He came waltzing out of the supermarket, a cheeky grin on his face, humming some jaunty tune like he just won a million bucks.

All Emma could think of in that instant was the cashier's beaming expression as she told them what a cute couple they made.

"We have nothing that goes into the freezer, aye?" He opened the freezer door, only to slam it shut when a blast of cold air blew into his face.

She chuckled. "Not unless you're planning on making ice cream anytime soon."

"What about blanching vegetables, preserving fruits, that sort of thing? We aren't going to do that?"

Crossing her arms over her chest, Emma squinted at him. "Where did you hear about that? Are you — Killian, have you seriously been reading about cooking?"

He crooked an eyebrow. "So what if I have? Something wrong with that?" A sultry smile crossed his lips. "Is it unmanly?"

"Unmanly? Oh my god." Laughing, she shook her head. "It's just... No one has ever taken an active interest in things I like but me, so I'm surprised. No, there's nothing wrong with that."

"What's your craziest dream, then?" She goggled at him. He shrugged. "Anything. Something you want to accomplish but think it's bloody impossible."

When she narrowed her eyes, he leaned forward on his elbows, chin propped on his hand, waiting.

Okay, she would take the bait. She had nothing to lose, since it was just a crazy dream.

"A café. My own little café. Nothing elaborate, just a simple coffee shop. I love baking over cooking, so pastries and hot beverages would be my kind of thing. I'd own it all, I'd call the shots. And even if I went out of business, no one could take the shop away from me — because it would _belong_ to me. College is great, but working towards a major... It will take me years, and even then, I may not get the job I want. And to be honest? I don't even know if that's something I really want. I'm doing it because the world thinks I do."

"Hmm." He tapped his fingers on the counter, staring down at the tiles. "It's not impossible, though. You could get that café."

"Yeah, right. With what, me and my student loans and my job at a diner?"

"Despite what you seem to believe about yourself, lass, I see you as the most persevering and hardworking person I've ever met. If it is the cost that worries you, I'll pitch in. And don't forget your position here is a salaried one," he winked.

Except that he has already given her a home, a job that practically doesn't exist, and means of transportation. Her cheeks flamed. He has already helped her enough, and there's no way she will ever be able to repay him.

"Nah, it's okay. Just a crazy dream." She brushed it off like it was nothing to her. Having something of her own, where she felt meant to be, was _everything_. It practically defined what she was looking for in life.

He searched her face for a full minute before agreeing, "As you wish, lass."

"So what's yours?" He gave her a blank look. "Your craziest dream."

His answering smile was so sad that she felt a deep ache inside. "That's the problem, lass. I don't have any dreams left."

When she came home from Granny's in the evening, wishing she could sink into a pillow, he was napping on the couch, a large book pages down on his lap. After she covered him with a blanket, she peeked at the cover of the book she had set aside.

_"The Ultimate Guide to Cooking and Baking."_

She never saw this on his bookshelf before. Which meant he must have gone out and bought it for himself.

When they met, he was the man who bought takeout dinners and frozen entrées, the man who didn't eat if he could help it. Then he followed her lead, wanting to show her that he appreciated her efforts in the kitchen. The man who had downed bottles of alcohol to escape his pain ― but who searched for her far and wide, never giving up, wanting to make things right between them.

He was a beast back then. If the beast wanted to change, maybe her dreams weren't so crazy after all.

It was clear that he needed a dream of own, a refuge. She could help with that. He was going to live again because she would try to help him find reasons to.

* * *

_"You've got to at least try it. Don't give up before you've tried." Emma scowled. She hated arguing._

_"You sound just like the bloody doctor—"_

_"I'm not a doctor, but I do want to help you, Killian!" she yelled back. Man, he was stubborn. "I'm your friend, and I care about you ― so listen to me, goddamn it."_

_He seemed taken aback by that. Hell, even she was shocked she admitted that. After a torturous stretch of silence, she added, quietly, "The journal is a new way to control addiction. One positive thought, every day. It doesn't have to be a thesis or an essay. It has to be about you. You need this."_

_"I need to write my way out of alcohol?"_

_She growled inside. "You need to find a hobby that channels that craving into a healthy energy. I read up on it. It works."_

_He actually rolled his eyes. "Bloody journals never worked for me."_

_"A paragraph a day. Just that. I'll even reward you."_

_"Rewards?" He immediately perked up. His grin was childish and playful and exuberant in comparison to the look of despair that he wore seconds ago. "How will the fierce, insistent Emma Swan reward me?"_

_"Very funny. We can make a calendar of it. A reward for every milestone."_

" _Hmm. I'm listening, lass..."_

"You never told me what your favorite book is."

After the incident, Emma had demanded ― not asked ― that Killian buy a telephone. It could be as old-fashioned as he wanted, as long as the thing plugged into the wall and she could hear through it. Ruby had called in just this morning about needing to close up early, so Emma had practically lazed around the house the entire afternoon after morning classes were over and done.

Bespectacled and broody, the man of the house had immediately rushed over to his couch after breakfast and begun reading. Then he had returned to his book when she came back from school. However, chewing on his lips and then his tongue, he was the ultimate image of a reader who was not well focused on his reading material. He kept fidgeting, even when she brought him a cup of tea as per his request.

Now she was checking on the bookshelves to make sure they didn't need dusting. She did that just yesterday. "My favorite book?"

"Aye. You know mine. But I'm curious as to what yours is."

"Guess."

Slowly, he peeled off his reading glasses, nibbling on one end while he contemplated. She could feel his stare right through her skin.

" _Pride and Prejudice_."

"Hah, not even close."

He cocked his head. " _Alice in Wonderland_."

"Okay, I like the unusual, but I'm not _that_ unusual."

For the next ten minutes, he rattled off a hundred books she was sure he must have read from cover to cover back in the day.

Finally, she gave up on the question-answer drill. With a weary sigh, she plopped down next to him and eyed him critically. "It never crossed your mind? Really?"

"What, love?"

Chuckling, she was about to tell him ― until she noticed its spine on one of his shelves. Easing off the smooth leather, she quickly grabbed the book and slid right back onto her seat, dropping it on his lap.

In a flash, the glasses were back on, and he was perusing her item of choice. " _The Secret Garden_. How appropriate."

In the many months they had known each other, Emma had watched the countless expressions of Killian Jones. How he smiled, what each smile meant. How his gaze could sometimes glitter in anger or approval, how his _visage_ could light up a room when he was cheerful. How his stormy side triggered her own.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, settling comfortably on the couch. "Read it to me?"

His lilting voice carved out the entrance to the enchanting storyworld she had loved since she was old enough to read, the morose landscape of the dead garden and the stubborn, curious girl who helped bring it back to life. Mary the orphan — so alone and so unloved, wanting somewhere to belong. No wonder Emma had bonded with the book instantly. A main character similar to herself was a friend come true in the midst of foster care people who couldn't care less about her.

Every time Killian reached the end of a chapter, he would glance at her, clear his throat, and move on to the next. But it was his smile that was the real mystery here, more than the locked garden and the mansion full of secrets. A bright, beautiful smile, peeking out at her, posing questions and answers.

A quarter through the book, he wrapped his arm around her, and right about the middle was when they began to doze off. Her face nose-deep in his navy blue sweater, his lips pressed into her hair. She was always so skeptical about snuggling and cuddling, but he was so warm and kind and safe, and he was here for her.

She didn't believe that his beasts were gone forever, but hey, neither were hers. Despite everything, they were here for each other. Hell, there was no way she was about to let go.

* * *

They woke up in the late evening, with sheepish grins and growling stomachs. He suggested they skip dinner and settle for hot cocoa with cookies instead.

When she slid the cinnamon bottle from the spice rack to him across the counter, he laughed. Racing to the couch, they fixated on a showing of _Annie_ , the musical Emma had loved as a kid. Watching Killian sing along with all the characters, as gleeful as a toddler himself, made up for all the sad parts in the film. When Annie decided to stay with Daddy Warbucks, Emma hid her face in Killian's shoulder so he wouldn't see her cry.

When she came home from school the next day, he was waiting for her in the living room, book in hand, knowing smirk on his face, dinner ready on the kitchen counter. She couldn't help smiling back.

That was probably the first time she realized how much she needed to stay here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to revisit this story. I've been terribly sick the past two weeks, so I wanted to get out at least one chapter before December. I hope to post up the final chapter before the start of the new year - please bear with me just a while longer! Thank you for your understanding and patience.


	7. Part 7 - A Tale as Old as Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much for your patience. Here, finally, is the last chapter.

  _Life without love is like a tree without blossoms or fruit._

~ Kahlil Gibran

* * *

The roses were blooming again.

It was good Emma had insisted that they prune the dormant bushes, in spite of a reluctant, stubborn Killian. Cocooned in thick coats, they trudged through knee-deep snow and did the deed. He showed her at what angle to cut the branches and warned her not to get too feisty with the trimmers.

Now crisp, green shoots greeted the dawn light, stretching towards the sun, extending a promise of flowers and heavenly scents.

And this time, she was on the other side of the fence. She could watch, gaze, observe, touch, and revel without fear. The roses would come, and she would be waiting for them.

And so was Killian, even if he wouldn't admit it. If he had truly despised those spiny shrubs, she teased him, he would have uprooted and tossed them aside years ago. But he did not. That's how she knew that for all of his grumbles and complaints, he loved the roses like she did.

Winter had passed and brought spring. The pain of the holidays, the unbearable loneliness she had come to expect year after year...

It was hard to forgive herself. Killian took to hibernating in his room until the lure of her cooking and oldie music drew him out. Finally, she had enough of the past, of broken dreams and old wounds and so many regrets.

She dragged back a small pine tree and roped Killian into helping her make their own ornaments. There was a resulting cookie fight in the kitchen, they argued over how to decorate the tree, Killian absolutely disagreed to putting up lights on his house...

It was the best Christmas Emma had ever had. She fell asleep in his arms while he read her "The Fourth Wise Man," a beautiful tale of never regretting your life's journey. She remembered the room was warm and full of light — enough light to chase away her regrets.

All she could think of in those moments was how much this felt like home.

This was her home. That mutual, burning love for the roses, an undeclared quest for beauty and hope, brought her and him together to build a real home.

However, most of the changes over the past months were Killian's. He almost religiously contributed to his wellness journal every day, and she was surprised to find out that he had weekly appointments with Dr. Hopper at the hospital. He never said anything to her about his drinking; true to his word, he never brought any alcohol into the house or was drunk again.

Maybe she was stupid and selfish to think that the reason for his progress was her, her presence in his life, that he was no longer alone. If he was dependent on her to such an extent, then it was good that he was seeking outside help as well, that he was making an effort to change. Still, she hoped that while she might or might not be the cause of such an enormous change, he wanted the effects for himself, whether she was here to see them or not.

When he drove her to Granny's and smiled at her as she ran to the door, promising to be home soon, she wondered. Would he go back to drinking if she moved out? If she got a well-paying job and was able to afford an apartment again, would he be okay with her departure?

Would she be okay with that?

Because her reliance on him was a different story than his on her. Before, she knew there was no one who cared or waited. She had no attachments and no hesitation. Her heart was numb.

He wasn't the only one who had changed.

She was afraid she was taking him for granted. She badly wanted to believe that their friendship was genuine and true beyond how deeply they needed each other. Which would hurt more, leaving him to free herself or accepting her feelings for him? Either way, she would suffer.

"Emma, Granny wants to talk to you."

She looked up from where she was carefully mopping the floor. "She does? About what?"

Ruby shrugged, wiping her hands on her apron. "I have no clue. She just yelled for me to come into her office — never a good thing when I'm busy counting supplies," she rolled her eyes, "but she did and so—"

"And so," she said with a smile, stretching her sore arms, "I should go."

Ruby took the mop. "Don't worry about finishing up here when you come back. Since I'm here and all, I might as well take a break from _accounting_ ," she grimaced. "God, I miss the easy days of cleaning. Numbers are not my thing."

Emma chuckled to herself as she weaved her way through the small storage rooms that surrounded her employer's small office. Ruby was much smarter than she made herself out to be. She would make a fine restaurant owner someday. Soon, according to Granny's promise.

That was the worrying part. That terrible moment would come, whether she liked it or not. Eventually, her remaining job, however sparse, would disappear, and she would be left to live on Killian's good graces and hospitality.

She was afraid. Was it wrong of her to be so afraid of the future?

"Granny?" she called out by the closed door. "It's me."

"Come in, my dear," her voice returned, friendly and warm. That much was reassuring. "We have much to talk about."

* * *

The wind turned the pages of his book again.

Tsking, Killian pushed them back and continued from where he had left off. Well, left off peeking over his reading glasses at the diner door, hoping for a glimpse of golden hair and gleaming smile. He didn't really give a damn about _A Tale of Two Cities_ right now.

She always insisted that she could get home by herself, that it was fine, that she could take care of herself. He always disagreed.

He wanted to take care of her, to help in any way he could. Even if that meant waiting for hours in his cramped Jeep until her shift was over and he could drive her home.

Maybe she believed that he just happened to be on time right when she got off work. Maybe she thought he cared much less than he did.

At this point, he couldn't hide his feelings anymore. But this was Emma: she would keep denying that she was worthy of love until the stars fell from the bloody sky. He wanted to tell her, to offer his heart to her. He wanted to be the man she should have met, the man Neal never was — a man she wanted for all time.

Their friendship was proof she had accepted him for who he really was, as he did her. They had formed a true alliance and were healing, slowly leaving the past behind.

Ironically, the only obstacle left was the greatest one. Taking a chance on the future — on each other — was no small feat. He knew that. Not so long ago, it was the day he allowed Swan to enter his house and his life. If he had not braved the unknown, he would not be here today, hoping beyond reason that she could possibly love him.

The clanging of the door startled him. Emma emerged, peering in all directions and looking relieved on seeing him. He grinned, waving the book at her. She came running, ushering herself inside before he could get out and be a gentleman.

"Please tell me dinner is ready, darling let's go home, the usual corny statements. I could use some of that tonight," she sighed, pulling her hair out of its ponytail. A wave of gold blinded him.

When she raised an eyebrow at him, he realized he was staring at her. Biting on the side of his cheek, he finally rasped, "Darling, you're a vision. Let's go home. Dinner's ready and waiting, right on the table."

"Always with the perfect lines when I need them." She managed to outmaneuver her seatbelt and rest her head on his shoulder. A smile graced her lips, a welcome replacement for the worry he had just seen in her face.

He chuckled while pulling out of his parking space. "Always. Anything for you."

Emma usually told him stories on their way home, either about the customers who were troublemakers or classmates who drove her crazy. Granny and Ruby were well-known figures he had yet to find the courage to meet in real life. However, this time she was silent, looking out the window instead of at him.

Something was troubling her.

"What's wrong?" His voice was quiet but strained.

She looked up at him in surprise.

"Swan. You're something of an open book, love. We talked about trust once. You don't have to tell me, but I would appreciate if you would. Please, talk to me."

Chewing on her bottom lip, she whispered back, "You're right. We do need to talk. It's important we do."

He clenched his jaw as he made the final turn before they reached the house. This was more serious than he had thought. "Would you like to talk now, or later?"

"Later. Inside."

* * *

His hand was trembling so much that he barely got the key into the lock.

She was going to leave. He could feel it. She was going to tell him that she had moved on, that her life was fixed now and she didn't need to be here anymore.

What hurt the most was that he had pondered that scenario many times, imagining what he would say in return. He would choke on useless pleading, declarations and promises he couldn't keep unless he was sure he was what she wanted as well. Then he would always, always submit to the truth: he loved her too much to beg her to stay.

Her happiness was the light in his life. Watching her spirit be stifled within these walls, while she let her dreams go unanswered, would plunge him right back into darkness.

He refused to be selfish. He refused to fight the creeping ache that would haunt him the moment she was gone.

A deep sigh echoed through the kitchen. Emma dropped her purse on the counter and then slid onto the couch. "What a day," she sighed again.

He cleared his throat. "Work giving you trouble?"

"What? No, no. Not trouble. It's just that..." She played with the tips of her hair. "Granny and I had a chat. About my future."

"Oh." He swallowed back a spike of nausea. "Is it about your job?"

She gave him a sad smile. "So perceptive. Yes and no."

His hand was sweating and he was going to burst out of his overheated skin. "Meaning?"

"She offered me... God, this is stupid. But I better say it before even I won't believe it."

"What, darling?"

Her eyes ran over him like a searchlight. Gauging his reaction, no doubt. "She wants me to have the diner, Killian."

Joy and pain wrestled in his chest, surging as one flame of unrest. "That's —"

"Impossible." Her anguish tore him apart. "It's not a gift. She asked if I'll buy it from her."

The café. The crazy wish she had tried to deny.

"Look, I know it's nuts. I don't have that kind of money. Turns out Ruby has her heart set on traveling, and Granny wants to join her. But they need that sale in addition to her retirement money to make it. Ruby can't pay out of her savings alone, and... Well, this is a take it or leave it deal."

His eyelids closed, and his vision swam. "You said yes?"

"No. I didn't."

His eyes snapped open in a second. "Are you bloody kidding me?"

She scoffed. "Come on. I would have to give up on college and spend the rest of my life paying off two loans. I don't even know if I would get a second loan — probably not — and then what if I'm not successful? What if the business fails catastrophically and I end up bankrupt?"

He immediately pulled her up from her seat and onto her feet. "Emma Swan, look at me," he ground out. "Look at me and deny that this isn't exactly what you want. We've been friends long enough for me to know that you are lying to yourself."

She yanked her hands from his grasp. "I'm not lying! It's simple. I cannot afford this."

"I'll give you the funds. I'll sell my car, this house, everything—"

Her onset of tears carved a hole in his tenuous self-control. "I don't want your charity!"

"This was never charity, lass! We're friends, I'm your friend, you're my friend — I want to give you everything I have—"

"You have no right to — I'm your damn housekeeper!"

"I don't give a fig about it. If it makes you happy, you're fired," he huffed, furious she would bring that up. "Do you really think so little of me? I'm not giving you a hand-out, and I'm not trying to buy you. This is a gift."

"A gift? Really?" she snapped. "You don't get it. I don't deserve any gifts. When I moved in here, I was penniless. I had one part-time job and a loan crushing my crappy bank account. I accepted your offer because I had no options. I was going to lose my apartment. I was practically homeless. I regret I didn't let you know, but I wanted you to think I had choices. I didn't want you to take advantage of me. I didn't want more debt then, and I don't want more now."

His heart finally flooded, overcome with sorrow. "I knew the truth. I knew after I asked and you accepted."

"You knew?" She sniffled. "But you never said anything."

"I couldn't. It was selfish of me, but I wanted you to stay." Every word was heavy in his mouth. "Tell me, during all this time, did I take advantage of you?"

"No. Never. You did the opposite. You...you made this a real home for me."

"And you for me, Emma." _Bloody hell, if you only could see how much._

Her breathing slowed. "You would give up your home for me? So I can have a café?"

"Aye."

"And the roses? Them as well? I know how much you love them. You've protected this place for years."

"Aye," he said sadly. "I love them. I always will. But they honor a memory. They are flowers that can grow anywhere. You are more important."

"Me?" she murmured. "More important than the roses?"

He had to touch her. Just once, one last caress so that his mind would never torment him with regrets. Shaking, his fingers swept over her cheek, brushing away fallen tears. When his entire hand finally cupped her face, his senses stilled.

"Don't you know, my darling? You are the most resplendent person I have ever met. I don't believe in many things these days, but I have faith in you. My heart led me to you for a reason. If I can give you the dream you seek, it would be small repayment for all the happiness your presence here has brought me."

Her gaze transfixed him. "I can't let you sell this house. I can't let you sacrifice all this for me."

"You can, and you will. I won't watch you wither away inside because of me."

He didn't want to be a hero. He only wanted to end her pain and bring her the contentment she deserved.

"You'll be alone if I leave. What will you do then?"

His jaw tightened. "Try to live without you. I did, once."

"You were miserable," she protested. "I can't just leave you like that."

His fingertips gently stroked her hair. "If you wish to leave, you must, dear heart. Don't cry, now. You gave me the chance to love again, to be myself again. I won't forget that. I won't forget you, no matter what you decide."

He felt like he was a wounded bird flying for the last time. He would lose not only his best friend but the woman he had come to care for so deeply. He didn't even want to imagine how he would survive without her.

Her eyes shimmered, peering into his relentlessly. He looked back with all the longing and desperation and despair he had. He wouldn't hold her like this again. He would do everything in his power to buy the diner for her. Then he would walk away, so she could have independence and hope and a future.

There was no future with a cripple like him. He would always be a beast.

"You are my rose, Emma," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "How can I be miserable, knowing that you will flourish and bloom?"

Suddenly, her fingers reached his cheek. Her other hand curled around his neck.

"I can't leave you, Killian. I can't leave you when I love you." Her tone was fierce. "Yes, I love you. I love you so much it hurts to admit it. I want to stay. I want you to fight for me to stay. Don't you dare give up on us. I don't give a damn about the café. Not when it means losing you."

Before he could say anything, her lips met his and the world faded.

In its place was color and brilliance and beating blood.

The power of her.

The power of love.

* * *

_The very next morning, the first, young red rose opened its petals to the sun._

_And both the Beauty and her Beast were there to welcome it._

* * *

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Another huge thank you to all my readers! I appreciate your support so much. I hope you've enjoyed the conclusion to this little fairy tale retelling. Any reviews or comments would be lovely. ♥ Cheers!
> 
> For news about my original fiction and other updates, please visit [my writing blog](https://nataliathewriter.blogspot.com).


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